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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 






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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 







THE EARLY POEMS 



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JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



N: H? DOLE 



:>^AUG 7 1893 

NEW YORK: 46 East 14TH Street 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 

BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street 



f. 



^ 

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Copyright, 1893, 
Ev T. Y. CROWELL & CO. 



Typography by J. S. Gushing & Co. 
Presswork by Rockwell & Churchill. 



^ CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Biographical Sketch vii 

The Bridal of Pennacook i 

I. The Merrimack 7 

II. The Bashaba 9 

III. The Daughter 14 

IV. The Wedding 17 

V. The New Home 21 

VI. At Pennacook 24 

VII. The Departure 27 

VIII. Song of Indian Women 29 

Legendary : 

The Merrimack 31 

The Norsemen 35 

Cassandra Southwick 39 

Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 50 

St. John 55 

Pentucket 61 

The Famihst's Hymn 64 

The Fountain 68 

The Exiles ^ 73 

The New Wife and the Old ." 83 

Voices of Freedom : 

The Slave Ships 89 

Stanzas, Our Countrymen in Chains 95 

iii 



iv CONTRA' TS. 

Voices of Freedom — continued. page 

The Yankee Girl 99 

To W. L. G loi 

Song of the Free 103 

The Hunters of Men 105 

Clerical Oppressors ^ 107 

The Christian Slave no 

Stanzas for the Times 113 

Lines written on reading Gov. Ritner's Message, 1836 116 
Lines written on reading the Famous " Pastoral Let- 
ter " 119 

Lines written for the Meeting of the Anti-Slavery 

Society at Chatham Street Chapel, New York, 1834 124 
Lines written for the Celebration of the Third Anni- 
versary of British Emancipation, 1837 126 

Lines written for the Anniversary Celebration of the 

First of August, at Milton, 1846 127 

The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her 

Daughter, sold into Southern Bondage 130 

Address written for the Opening of " PENNSYLVANIA 

Hall " 132 

The Moral Warfare 138 

The Response 139 

The World's Convention of the Friends of Emancipa- 
tion, held in London in 1840 143 

New Hampshire, 1845 151 

The New Year : addressed to the Patrons of the Penn- 
sylvania Freeman 152 

Massachusetts to Virginia 158 

The Relic 165 

Stanzas for the Times — 1844 168 

The Branded Hand 172 

Texas 176 

To Faneuil Hall 180' 

To Massachusetts 182 

The Pine Tree 184 

Lines suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington 
in the 12th Month of 1845 1^6 



CONTENTS. V 

Voices of Freedom — ^^«//««^^. page 

Lines from a Letter to a Young Clerical Friend 192 

Yorktown 193 

Ego, written in the Book of a Friend 196 

Miscellaneous : 

The Frost Spirit 203 

The Vaudois Teacher 204 

The Call of the Christian 207 

My Soul and 1 209 

To a Friend on her Return from Europe 217 

To the Reformers of England 220 

The Quaker of the Olden Time 222 

The Reformer 224 

The Prisoner for Debt 226 

Lines written on reading Several Pamphlets published 

by Clergymen against the Abolition of the Gallows 231 

The Human Sacrifice. 235 

Randolph of Roanoke 242 

Democracy ; 246 

To Ronge 249 

Chalkley Hall 251 

To John Pierpont 254 

The Cypress Tree of Ceylon 255 

A Dream of Summer 258 

To with a copy of " Woolman's Journal " 259 

Leggett's Monument 265 

The Angels of Buena Vista 266 

For^jiveness 27 1 

•^ Barclay of Ury 271 

What the Voice said 27'j 

To Delaware 279 

Worship 280 

The Album 283 

The Demon of the Study 284 

The Pumpkin 288 

Extract from a " New England Legend " 290 

Hampton Beach 293 



vi CONTENTS. 

Miscellaneous — conthiued. page 

Lines written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright 296 
Lines accompanying Manuscripts presented to a 

Friend 297 

The Reward 300 

Raphael 301 

The Knight of St. John 305 

Autumn Thoughts 308 

Songs of Labor: 

Dedication 309 

The Ship-builders 311 

The Shoemakers 314 

The Drovers 317 

The Fishermen 321 

The Huskers 324 

The Corn Song 328 

The Lumbermen . 330 






\[ 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Circumstances determine the poet ; inheritance 
determines who the poet shall be. It somehow 
seems to be a marvellous thing that a thrifty, plain 
Quaker stock should come to such a flowering as was 
seen in John Greenleaf Whittier. That iridescent 
colors should play over the Quaker drab! That from 
the insignificant chrysalis should emerge the brilliant 
butterfly! From Keltic origin one might expect any 
surprises. Boyle O'Reilly, who had also something 
of the prophetic spirit, who also threw himself gener- 
ously into conflict with powers that did their best to 
crush him and make a martyr of him, is explained by 
the fact that he was Keltic. But one scarcely ex- 
pects a singer from the ranks of sober Friends. 
That is an anomaly ; and to explain the phenomenon 
one must look into Whittier's ancestry. 

Four steps bring us back to the days of the Puii- 
)cns. Whittier's father, John, born in 1760, was the 
of .Ah child of Joseph, born in 1716, the ninth and 
ancingest sen of Joseph, born in 1669, who was in 
titu-n the tenth and youngest child of Thomas, who 



viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 

was born in Southampton, England, in 1620, and 
sailed for America in the good ship " Confidence " 
a little more than two and a half centuries ago. 
Thomas Whittier was no common man. He settled 
on the Merrimack River, first in Salisbury, then in 
old Newbury, then in Haverhill, where he built the 
house in which his famous descendant was born. 
He is said to have brought the first hive of bees to 
Haverhill. In those days Indians frequently scalped 
and murdered defenceless families of white settlers ; 
but Thomas Whittier made them his friends and 
disdained to protect his house with flint-lock or 
stockade. 

Thomas Whittier's son, Joseph, married the daugh- 
ter of the Quaker, Joseph Peasley, and thus the strain 
which in those days was regarded as a disgrace, but 
which in time became a mark of distinction, was 
grafted upon the Whittier stock. The poet's grand- 
father married Sarah Greenleaf, a descendant of a 
French exile, whose name, instead of being perverted 
like the Lumntydews (L'Hommedieux) and the De- 
sizzles (Des Isles), was simply translated into Eng- 
lish. What part this GalHc blood played in Whit- 
tier's mental make-up, it would be no less difficult 
than interesting to determine. 

Whittier's mother, Abagail Hussey, was descended 
from the Rev. Stephen Bachelor or Batchelder of 
Hampton, N.H., a man who was famed for his 
"splendid eye."" This feature, which is gener^' 
associated with genius, seemed to have been ? '\^ 
herited by Whittier, and Daniel Webster, and \^, \\ 
liam Pitt Fessendjn, and Caleb Cusliino- Dark \' 



/ 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. ix 

expressive, penetrating eyes, full of soul and flashing 
with sudden lightning glances, were characteristic of 
the " Bachelder eye,''' common to so many families in 
New Hampshire. 

Whittier's father married at the age of forty-four 
and had only four children, Mary, John Greenleaf, 
who was born September 17, 1807, Matthew Frank- 
lin, and Elizabeth Hussey. 

The old Whittier farmhouse, with its huge central 
chimney, faces the south ; the front lower rooms are 
square, with fifteen-inch oaken beams supporting the 
low ceilings. The poet was born in the west front 
room, the two small-paned windows of which look 
down to a little brook, which in those early days, 
says V/hittier, "foamed, rippled, and laughed" be- 
hind its natural fringe of bushes. Across the way 
was the big unpainted barn. The scenery was the 
typical landscape of New England — a smooth, 
grassy knoll (known as Job's Hill), woodland com- 
posed of oaks, walnuts, pines, firs, and spruces, with 
sumachs, which in the autumn, and in the spring as 
well, are gorgeous with many colors. Whittier, how- 
ever, was color blind, and all that splendid display 
counted as naught to him. 

Behind the house was the orchard, and behind the 
orchard a clump of oaks, near which the Whittier 
graveyard used to be. 

In 1798 the farm was rated as worth $200. The 
year before the poet was born his father bought one 
of three shares in it for $600 of borrowed money, 
and the debt was not cleared for a quarter of a cen- 
tury. Money was scarce in those days. And yet 



X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

John Whittier was honored by his townspeople, was 
frequently in the public service, and entertained men 
of note at his humble fireside. 

When Whittier was seven years old, he went to 
school. His first teacher, who was his lifelong friend, 
was Joshua Coffin of old Newbury. 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning ; 
Around it still the sumachs grow, 

And blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen. 

Deep scarred by raps official ; 
The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jack-knife's carved initial. 

The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 

The door's worn sill betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school. 

Went storming out to playing. 

It stood about half a mile from Whittier's home, but 
the fount of knowledge flowed during only about 
three months in the year. 

At home the library was scanty. Only twenty 
books or so, mostly journals and memoirs of pious 
Quakers, furnished the boy home reading. He would 
walk miles to borrow a volume of biography or travel. 
Naturally, the precepts of the Bible, which was daily 
read, became a part of his mental and moral fibre. 
His poems are full of references to Bible events and 
characters. '*In my l)oyhood,'' he says, "in our 
lonely farmhouse, v;c had scanty sources of informa- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi 

tion, few books, and only a small weekly newspaper. 
Our only annual was the Almanac. Under such 
circumstances story-telling was a necessary resource 
in the long winter evenings.'" 

When Nature sets about to make a poet, she has 
her own college. These apparent deprivations are 
enrichments. They concentrate genius. The few 
hours of regula,r schooling were counterbalanced 
with lessons from Dame Nature herself. 

Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild-flower's time and place. 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
» How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
How the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way. 
Mason of his walls of clay. 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ; 
For eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ! 
Hand in hand with her he walks. 
Face to face with her lie talks. 

He goes on autobiographically : — 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 



xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laugh t the brook for my delight 
I'hrough the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talkt with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond ; 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides, 

There was scanty time for play, however ; that 
perpetual interest was eating up the meagre prod- 
ucts of the farm ; boys had to put their hands to 
the plough. ''At an early age," he says, "I was 
set at work on the farm and doing errands for my 
mother, who, in addition to her ordinary house 
duties, was busy in spinning and weaving the linen 
and woollen cloth needed for the family." 

The family was large, consisting, says Whittier, 
of " my father, mother, my brother and two sisters, 
and my uncle and aunt, both unmarried." In ad- 
dition there was the district school-master, who 
boarded with them. 

For graphic pen-pictures of this group, one must 
go to "■ Snow-Bound." There we shall see Uncle 
Moses, with whom the boys delighted to go fishing 
in the dancing brook. 

His aunt. Miss Hussey, had the reputation of 
making the best squash pies that were ever baked. 
The influence of pie in developing character must 
not be overlooked. Wiiat oatmeal was to Carlyle, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKKICIL xiii 

what the haggis was to Burns, the pie was to the 
true New Englander. It will not be forgotten how 
fond Emerson was of pie. Indigestion and poetry 
have a certain strange alliance ; did not Byron pur- 
posely exacerbate his stomach in order to coin " Don 
Juan "" into guineas ? 

Each member of that delightful household stands 
forth in living lines. ''Snow-Bound" now needs 
no praise. It has been accepted as the typical idyl 
of a New England winter, the sweetest flower of New 
England home life. 

It is greater than '•'• The Cotter's Saturday Night " 
because it was written more from the heart. It 
stands with " The Cotter's Saturday Night " and, 
though, quite unlike, may have been inspired by 
Burns's immortal poem. To Burns, Whittier owed 
his first inspiration, and he himself tells how he 
learned first to know the Scotch poet. A wandering 
Scotchman came one day to the Whittier farmhouse. 
" After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his 
mug of cider, he gave us ' Bonnie Doon,' ' Highland 
Mary,' and ' Auld Lang Syne.' He had a full rich 
voice and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics." 

When he was fourteen, Joshua Coffin brought a 
volume of Burns's poems, and read some of them, 
greatly to his delight. Says Whittier: "I begged 
'him to leave the book with me, and set myself 
L>at once to the task of mastering the glossary of 
the Scottish dialect to its close. This was about 
the first poetry I had ever read (with the excep- 
tion of that of the Bible, of which I had been a 
close student), and it had a lasting influence upon 



xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imag- 
ine stories and adventure/' When pen and ink 
failed him, he resorted to chalk or charcoal, and he 
hid away his effusions with the care with which a cat , 
hides her young kittens. j 

It is interesting to know that recently one or two | 
of Whittier's first attempts in rhyme, in Scotch i 
dialect and in the manner of Burns, have been dis- ■ 
covered. 

When Whittier was in his eighteenth year, that j 
is, in 1825, he wrote several poems which found ) 
their way the following year to the Newburyport \ 
Free Press., then just established by William Lloyd 
Garrison. The Whittiers subscribed for it, and in 
the "Poets' Corner" appeared in print the first of 
the young man's published verses, entitled " The 
Exile's Departure," written in the meter of " The 
Old Oaken Bucket." It is noticeable that the Exile 
sings : — 

Farewell, shores of Erin, green land of my fathers, 
Once more and forever, a mournful adieu. 

It would seem that Thomas Moore's Irish melodies 
must have fallen into his hands. The trace of Whit- 
tier's reading is often to be found in his poems. 
" Mogg Megone" also shows the insidious influence' 
of "Lalla Rookh." "The Bridal of Pennacook" i^. 
Wordsworth, pure and simple, the praise of whon^l 
betrays its origin ; but not as yet, and not until long' 
afterwards, did he succeed in attaining felicity in 
epithet. It was also the day of the Scott and of the 
Byron fever, and Whittier did not escape it. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xv 

It is said that Whittier was mending fences when 
the carrier brought the paper that contained his first 
printed lines and the editorial notice : '' If W. at 
Haverhill will continue to favor us with pieces beau- 
tiful as the one inserted in our poetical department of 
to-day, we shall esteem it a favor." Whittier could 
hardly believe his eyes. He accepted the invitation. 
The second of his Free Press poems was in blank 
verse and entitled " Deity." He confided the secret 
to his sister. She informed Garrison that it was her 
brother who wrote them. One day when the young 
poet was hoeing in the cornfield, clad only in shirt, 
trousers, and straw hat, he was summoned into the 
house to see a visitor. It proved to be Garrison, 
who had driven over from Newburyport to make the 
acquaintance of his contributor. He insisted that 
Whittier showed such talent that he ought to have 
further education. 

Whittier's father remonstrated against putting 
notions into the lad's head. " Sir," he said, " poetry 
will not give him bread." Besides, there was no 
money and no prospect of money. Suddenly a way 
opened. A young hired man knew how to make 
ladies' shoes and slippers. He offered to teach the 
art to his employer's son. Mr. Moses Emerson, one 
of Whittier's early teachers, used to relate how WHiit- 
tier worked at his shoemaking in a little shop which 
stood in the yard, and how he sat on a bench amid 
tanned hides, pincers, bristles, paste pots, and rosin, 
stitching for dear life. 

During the following winter he earned by it enough 
money to buy a suit of clothes and pay for six months' 



xvi BIOGRAPHICAL. SKETCH. i 

I 
schooling at the new Academy in Haverhill. Whit- ) 
tier wrote the ode that was sung at the dedication of \ 
the new building. He boarded at the house of Mr. 
A. W. Thayer, editor and publisher of the Haverhill 
Gazette. Naturally the young poet contributed also 
to this paper some of his verses. He was now nine- 
teen, and was long remembered as " a very handsome, 
distinguished-looking young man " with remarkably 
handsome eyes ; tall, slight, and very erect, bashful 
but never awkward. 

Whittier used to like to relate the story of his first 
visit to Boston. He was dressed in a new suit of 
homespun, which for the first time were adorned with 
" boughten buttons.'" He expected to spend a week 
with the Greenes, who were family connections. 
Shortly after his arrival he sallied forth to see the 
sights. He described how he wandered up and down 
the streets, but somehow found it different from what 
he expected. The crowd was worse on Washington 
Street, and he soon got tired of being jostled and 
thought he would step aside into an alley-way and 
wait till " the folks " got by. But there was no cessa- 
tion of the " terrible stream of people," some of whom 
stared at him with curious or mocking eyes. He 
stayed there a long time and began to be " lonesome." 

At last, however, he mustered courage to leave his 
" coign of vantage," and safely reached Mrs. Greene's 
in time for tea. She had guests, among them a gay \ 
young woman whose beauty and vivacity especially 
interested him. But she began to talk about the | 
theatre, and finally asked him to be present that , 
evening. She was the leading lady! Whittier had ^ 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvii 

promised his mother that he would never enter a play- 
house. He was terribly shocked at the danger which 
he had run. He could not sleep that night, and next 
morning he took the early stage-coach for his country 
home. In after years he told this story with great 
zest, but he never broke the promise which he made 
to his mother. 

At the close of the term, Whittier taught the dis- 
trict school at West Amesbury, thus enabling him to 
return for another six months at the Academy. Gar- 
rison had meantime gone to Boston, and through his 
influence Whittier secured a place there at a salary of 
nine dollars a week on the Americati Mamifactiirer. 
But this engagement was of short duration. In 1830 
he was editing the Haverhill Gazette. He was begin- 
ning to be widely known as a poet. Next he became 
editor of the New England Weekly Review of Hart- 
ford, Conn., to which he also contributed upwards of 
forty poems, besides sketches and tales in prose. He 
boarded at the Exchange Coffee House, and lived a 
solitary, sedentary life. His health even then was 
delicate. At this time, if ever, occurred the hinted 
romance of his life. Writing of a visit to his home, 
he said : " I can say that I have clasped more than 
one fair hand, and read my welcome in more than one 
bright eye.*"^ More than one love-poem dated from 
this time. Long afterwards he touched upon these 

/episodes in "Memories''' and in '* A Sea-dream."' 
But Whittier never married. 

i. He published his first volume in 1831, — "Legends 
of New England,'' a collection of his prose and verse. 
This was afterwards suppressed, as well as his first 



xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

narrative poem, " Moll Pitcher/' published the follow- 
ing year. So far, with much promise, he had as yet 
shown little originality. He bade fair to be simply a 
poet. But two years later he took part in an event 
which was destined to change the face of all things, 
not for him alone, but for his country. In 1833 he 
helped to organize the American Anti-slavery Society. 
Henceforth, during a whole generation, his life was 
to be a warfare : — 

Our fathers to their graves have gone ; 

Their strife is past, their triumph won ; 

But sterner trials wait the race 

Which rises in their honored place, — 

A moral warfare with the crime 

And folly of an evil time. 

So let it be. In God's own might 

We gird us for the coming fight, 

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours 

In conflict with unholy powers, 

We grasp the weapons He has given, — 

The Light and Truth and Love of Heaven, 

Side by side with William Lloyd Garrison stood 
Whittier. The manifesto of the one was the inspira- 
tion of the other : '' I will be harsh as truth and as 
uncompromising as justice. I am in earnest ; I will 
not equivocate ; I will not excuse ; I will not retreat 
a single inch, and I will be heard! '' 

Whittier in the same spirit sang : — < 

If we have whispered truth, whisper no longer; 

Speak as the tempest does, sterner and stronger; ] 

Still be the tones of truth louder and firmer. 
Startling the haughty South with the deep murmur; 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xix 

' God and our charter's right, Freedom forever, 

Truce with oppression, never, Oh, never! 

Nor would he allow the charms of mere literature 
to beguile him into pleasant paths. Putting aside 
melancholy, sentimental yearnings, he resisted the 
temptation, as he pathetically sings in the poem 
entitled •' Ego." 

The question of slavery began to be borne in upon 
him even before he settled in Hartford. On his 
return home he made a thorough study of the subject 
and wrote a twenty-three page pamphlet entitled 
" Justice and Expediency ; or, Slavery Considered 
with a View to its Rightful and Effectual Remedy, — 
Abolition." It was printed at Haverhill at his own 
expense. Its argument was never answered. It con- 
cluded with this eloquent peroration : — 

" And when the stain on our own escutcheon shall be seen 
no more ; when the Declaration of Independence and the 
practice of our people shall agree ; w hen Truth shall be 
exalted among us ; when Love shall take the place of Wrong ; 
when all tlve baneful pride and prejudice of caste and color 
shall fall forever; when under one common sun of political 
Liberty the slave-holding portions of our Republic shall no 
longer sit like Egyptians of old, themselves mantled in thick 
darkness while all around them is glowing with the blessed 
light of freedom and equality — then and not till then shall it 
ixO WELL FOR America." 

/ 

I This preceded and led to his appointment as one 
of the delegates of the great Anti-slavery Convention 

I at Philadelphia. Next to Magna Charta and the 
Declaration of Independence, the Declaration of 



XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Principles then formulated, and signed by Whittier, 
is a document of which the generations unborn will ', 
be most proud. A copy of it framed in wood from 
Pennsylvania Hall, de.->troyed by a pro-slavery mob, 
was one of Whittier's most precious possessions. 

In spite of his stand on an unpopular side, Whit- 
tier's character was appreciated by his fellow-citizens. 
He was elected a member of the Massachusetts State 
legislature in 1835. He held only one other public 
office — that of presidential elector. But the people 
of his own communion looked askance upon his 
political, reformatory, and literary achievements. He 
was even brought into danger of discipline, and it is 
said that in his later days he used to remark jokingly 
that not until he was old would the Quakers of his 
society show any willingness to put upon him the 
little dignities from which his position as a reformer 
had in his youth excluded him. 

The very year that he was a member of the Mas- 
sachusetts legislature, he had his first experience of 
a mob. George Thompson, the famous English 
abolitionist and member of Parliament, came to 
this country to preach abolition. It w^as noised 
abroad that he was brought over to disseminate 
dissension between North and South, so as to de- 
stroy American trade, to the advantage of British. 
This noble reformer had narrrow^ly escaped a mob.,!) 
Salem. Whittier invited him to his East Haver 
hill home, that he might have perfect rest anc. 
quiet. The two men enjoyed making hay togethel 
and were entirely unmolested. At last they started 
to drive to Plymouth, N.H., to visit a prominent^ 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi 

abolitionist there. On their way they stopped at 
Concord, where Thompson was invited to speak on 
reform. 

After the lecture they found it impossible to 
leave the hall, which was surrounded by a mob of 
several hundred persons. On their way back, they 
were assailed with stones. Whittier declared that 
he understood how St. Paul felt when the Jews at- 
tacked him. Fortunately, their heads were not 
broken, but they were severely lamed. The mob 
surrounded the house and demanded that the 
Quaker and his guest should be handed over to 
them. His host opened the door and exclaimed : 
" Whoever comes in here must come in over my 
dead body." Decoyed away, the rabble returned 
with muskets and a cannon. Their lives were in 
danger. They managed to harness a horse, and 
then, when the gate was suddenly opened, they 
drove off at a furious gallop and escaped from the 
hooting mob, which one of themselves afterwards 
declared was like a throng of demons. At Plymouth 
they narrowly escaped another mobbing. Not long 
after, when Whittier was attending an extra session 
of the legislature, the female anti-slavery society 
meeting was broken up by a mob. The police 
rescued Garrison, just as they were going to hang 
him to a lamp-post. Whittier's sister was one of 
the delegates, and the two were stopping at the 
same house. Whittier managed to remove her to a 
place of safety; he and Samuel J. May sat up all 
night watching developments. Those were excit- 
ing times. 



xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Most of the year Whittier, like Cincinnatus, 
worked his farm. His father had died, and the 
brunt of the burden of supporting the family rested ' 
on him. He was often seen in the fall of the 
year at the head of tide-water in the Merrimack, 
exchanging apples and vegetables for the salt-fish 
brought by coasting vessels. In the spring of 
March, 1838, he went to Philadelphia to edit the 
Pennsylvania Freeman, which had its offices in 
a large building built by the anti-slavery people, 
and named Pennsylvania Hall. It was publicly 
opened on the fifteenth of May with speeches, and 
a long poem by Whittier. That evening a stone 
was flung through one of the windows of the hall. 
This was the preliminary symptom of impending 
trouble. The next day a mob collected and dis- 
turbed the meetings with their jeers and yells. On 
the third day, in spite of the association's formal 
demand for protection, and the mayor's promise, 
the building was given into the hands of the mob, 
which sacked it and then set it on fire. The fire- 
men refused to quench the flames and were com- 
plimented by the Southern press on their noble 
conduct. One paper printed a boasting letter from 
a participant saying: " Not a drop of water did they 
pour on that accursed Moloch until it was a heap of 
ruins." 

A charitable shelter for colored orphans was also^ 
burned, and a colored church was attacked and 
wrecked. The members of the Pennsylvania Anti- 
slavery Society met the next morning after the 
outrage, beside the smoking ruins of their hall, and 

W 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxiii 

calmly elected their officers while a vast mob was 
still howling around them. Whittier's investment 
in the paper was lost, but he stayed in Philadelphia 
for about a year, when his failing health compelled 
him to return to Massachusetts. The East Haver- 
hill farm was sold in 1840, and he removed with 
his mother, sister, and aunt to Amesbury, which 
was his legal residence through the rest of his life. 
Within ten or twelve minutes' walk of Whittier's 
house rises Pow-wow Hill, so often celebrated in 
his verse. The surrounding region which is visible 
from it has been well called his Ayrshire : far to 
the north the White Mountains are dimly visible, — 
his beloved Ossipee and Bearcamp. To the south, 
Agamenticus — Adamaticus, as the natives call it — 
stands in its purple isolation. The Isles of Shoals 
are visible, like rough stones in a turquoise arch, the 
lone line of beaches which he often called by name, 
and the rock-ribbed coast of Cape Ann. Scarcely 
a point which had not a legend, scarcely a legend 
which he did not put into verse. 

After the death of his sister and the marriage of 
his ^-liece, he resided during the most of the year 
with his cousins, at their beautiful country-seat at 
Oak Knoll, Danvers. 

The storm and stress were past. Henceforth, for 
the most part, he devoted his genius to song. His 
watchword was : — 



Our country, and Liberty and God for the Right. 



'^vj^JHe , 



was not afraid to lift the whip of scorpion 
[j^ngs : he called the pro-slavery congressmen : — 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

A passive herd of Northern mules, 

Just braying from their purchased throats 
Whate'er their owner rules. 



against receiving the petitions of the people in regard 
to slavery was thus held up to execration : — 

... the basest of the base, 
The vilest of the vile. — . . . 



A mark for every passing blast 
Of scorn to whistle through. 



When he felt that Daniel Webster, whom he had 
so much admired, was recreant, he wrote against him 
that tremendous accusation entitled '' Ichabod." He 
never ceased, however, to regret the severity of those 
awful lines, which make Browning's " Lost Leader " 
sound flat and insipid in comparison. 

Whittier was never despondent. In the darkest 
hours he saw the rainbow promise bent on high. ,.- 

He cried in 1844 to the men of Massachusetts^: — 

Shrink not from strife unequal! , '^_ 

With the best is always hope ; 
And ever in the sequel 

God holds thf light side up. ^\ 

Thus, while he knew how to apply the lash, he djjso 
could cheer, and encourage, and advise. His prii^d 
tical common sense, his clear vision, saw far ahead^tj. 1 

It w^ould be impossible to write the history ^g 
Emancipation and not recognize the influence j^j^ 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxv 

Whittier's lyrics. Lacking in imagination, in grace, 
in what is commonly called poetic charm, often 
clumsy, ill-rhymed, and unrhythmical, they yet have 
an awakening power like that of a trumpet. Plain 
anv^ unadorned, they appealed to a plain and simple 
people. They won their way by these very homely 
qualities. 

Whittier learned from his parents the art of 
story-telling. Naturally, the Indians first appealed 
to him, and many of his earliest poems have the 
Red-skins as their heroes; speaking of " Mogg 
Megone " many years after it was written, he 
says : — 

" Looking at it at the present time, it suggests the 
idea of a big Indian in his war-paint strutting about 
in Sir Walter Scott's plaid.'' 

But the early history of New England was full 
of folk-lore, and Whittier had the ballad-maker's 
instinct. As he grew older, his sureness of touch 
increased. The homely names conferred on his 
native brooks and ponds fitted into his verse. 
Thus : — 

The dark pines sing on Ramolh Hill 
Tlie slow song of the sea. 

The sweetbnar blooms on Kittery-side 
And green are Eliot's bovvers. 

j And he talks about the " nuts of Wenham w^oods." 

/ One could quote hundreds of such felicitous 

/ouches, which endear a poet to his neighbors and 

)|;hen to his nation. Catching hold of the New 

■England legends and turning them into homely 



xxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

rhymes, as a ballad-singer would have done in 
tlie early days, he becomes not only the poet, but 
the creator of the legends. The very meaning of the 
word " poet" is the maker. A friend sends him the 
rough prose outline of a story connected with some 
old house, and Whittier easily remodels it and 
makes it his own. Thus he is the Poet of New 
England, and as New England has colonized the 
West, his fame spreads over the whole land. He 
gets hearers for himself by this double capacity. 
He is the ballad-maker ; and in this view he stands 
far higher as a poet than in his nobler but less 
poetic capacity of Laureate of Freedom and Faith. 
The word "Liberty" has a hundred rhymes; the 
word "slave" its dozens. How the poet is put to it 
when he wants to find a rhyme for " love" ! 
"Dove" and "above" and "glove" are about all 
the words that are left to him. Whittier, with his 
ease of rhyming, put little poetry but immense 
feeling into his anti-slavery poems. Not by them 
will he be judged as a poet. 

He has still another claim on us. He was the 
descendant of godly men and women. No Ameri- 
can poet of his rank was so distinctively religious, 
and yet his verse is absolutely 

undimmed 
By dust of theologic strife or breath 

Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore, [ 

\ 
He could not be kept within the narrow limits o: « 

sect. His religion was a vital principle with hii \ 

Like his own "Quaker of the Olden Time," he ma( i 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxvii 

his daily life a prayer. Faith in God was supreme. 
Read any of his hymns, his addresses, to friends, his 
memorials to the dead ; there are more than seventy 
of them gathered in the second volume of his col- 
lected works. How they speak of immortality and 
the Eternal Goodness ! In one of his last poems, 
while he speaks almost mournfully of sitting alone 
and watching the 

warm, sweet day 
Lapse tenderly away, 



he calms his troubled thought with these words 



Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil 

The wise disposing Will, 
And, in the evening as at morning, trust 

The All-merciful and Just, 

The solemn joy that soul communion feels 

Immortal life reveals; 
And human love, its prophecy and sign, 

Interprets love divine. 

One of his last letters was written in favor of a 
union of the numerous sects in the one vital centre 
— the Christ. After this, it seems almost ungracious 
to speak critically of Whittier"'s work. He himself 

ten wished that at least half of it were sunk in 

le Red Sea. A good deal of his early work had 

deed 



\i 



t The simple air and rustic dress 

And sisrn of haste and carelessness 



xxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

which he attributes to it, but also it was 

More than the specious counterfeit 
Of sentiment or studied wit. 

He calls his verse " simple lays of homely toil." 

He may have written commonplaces, but he de- 
clared that he could 7wt trace the cold and heartless 
commonplace. 

Whittier was utterly color-blind ; he also declared 
that he did not know anything of music, " not one 
tune from another." "The gods made him most 
unmusical," he whimsically remarked. Lack of musi- 
cal ear is not uncommon in poets. Burns was 
behind all his schoolmates in that respect. Bryant 
had no music in his soul ; Byron also lacked it. 
The rhythmic sense atones for the lack. Whittier, 
unlike Lowell, did not try to write in the Yankee 
dialect, but his origin betrayed itself. The long- 
suffering "r" was absolutely ignored. We have 
such rhymes as " gone — worn — horn " ; •' war — 
squaw " ; " accurst — lust " (as though he pro- 
nounced it accitsf) ; " water — escort her " ; " honor 
and scorner"; "off — serf"; "sisters — vistas"; 
-' reward and God " (such infelicities did not 
oftend his taste) ; " farmer — hammer " ; " thus — 
curse " ; '' ever — leave her — Eva " ; " favors — 
save us " ; " tellers — Cinderellas " ; " treasures — 
maize-ears " ; " woody — sturdy " ; " KatahdinV r.' j 
gardens." He, like Byron (who pronounced ".'• 
melopard" "camel-leopard"), often put the wr <^ 
accents on words : " ^Xxoxig-hold,'''' " rti^z-cestr. 
"/d^/-troons," " grape-z'/;^-?," " moon-i-/////*?," " 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxix 

mance,''' '■'■ vioYxn'''' as though in two syllables. 
True to his Quaker origin, he rarely makes refer- 
ence to music. Once he speaks of " The light viol 
and the mellow flute." He rarely indulges in com- 
parisons. In that respect he is like the author of 
the Iliad. As a general thing his lines flow rather 
monotonously in the four-line ballad meter ; he was 
neither bold nor very happy in more complicated 
structures of verse. His few sonnets were not suc" 
cessful. Sometimes he allowed the exigences of 
rhyme to force him into showing the Indian's birchen 
boat propelled by glancing oars. He once in a while 
wrote such lines as these : — 

The faded coloring of Time's tapestry 

Let Fancy with her dream-dipt brush supply. 

Whittier, in conversation with his intimates, pos- 
sessed a remarkable vein of humor ; his letters are 
full of drolleries, but he seemed to have little sense 
of the ludicrous, else he could not have w^ritten such a 
line as 

Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea, 
or 

From the rude board of Bony th on 
Venison and succotash have gone. 

He rarely indulged in alliteration, yet we find 
" greenly growing grain "'' and "' Summer's shade and 
sunshine warm." In one place he boldly indulges 
fc.r rhyme's sake in such bad grammar as this : — 

When Warkworth wood 
Closed o'er my steed and I. 



XXX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

And again: " twixt thou and I." In spite of these ; 
fauhs, we would not willingly let a line of Whittiers 
verse perish. Even the fugitive pieces of his 
youth, which he himself came to detest, the crudities 
of "Mogg Megone/' are interesting and valuable. 
When his verse is studied chronologically, it is easy 
to see what constant progress he made. It was the 
noble growth of a New England pine, which, while 
the branches near the ground are dead and broken, 
still towers up higher and higher, with ever abundant 
foliage toward the sun-kissed top. And what pict- 
ures he painted ! 

Whittier, without the advantages, or so-called 
advantages, of college training, without ever travel- 
ling abroad, a hermit, almost, in his later years, 
keeping aloof from the people, painfully suflfering 
from constant ill-health, unable to work half an hour 
at a time, ranks with the greatest of American men 
of letters. His prose is simple and pure ; his verse 
goes right to the heart. It is free from the senti- 
mentality and turbidity of Lowell, from the artificial- 
ity that we sometimes feel in Longfellow, from the 
classic coldness of Bryant. He was the poet of the 
people, and yet. the cultured find no less to love and 
admire in him. To have written "Snow-Bound'' 
alone would have been to achieve immortality. But 
Whittier wrote so many popular poems, which have 
become household words, that I have not evenrg^^, 
tempted to enumerate them or the date of ^iV^eir 
appearing. r 

He lived to see the crown of immortality uni!-^i-^i_ 
mously conferred upon him. He lived to a gra u-^^j 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxxi 

old age, and yet he has said that for many years 
not merely the exertion of writing but even the 
mere thought of taking his pen into his hand 
brought on a terrible headache. Neither could he 
read with comfort. He therefore had to sit patiently 
and wait for Friend Death to come and lead him 
into that world where he believed the loved ones 
were waiting to welcome him. He died on the 
seventh of September, 1892, not at his favorite 
abiding-place at Oak Knoll, Danvers, but at Hamp- 
ton Falls, N.H., where he was visiting the daughter 
of an old friend. Pure, simple, humble, unspoiled, 
full of love to God and man, triumphing in his faith, 
Whittier went forward into the unknown. Such a 
death is not to be deplored. He was willing, nay, 
anxious to go. 

Let the thick curtain fall ; 

I better know than all 

How little I have gained, 

How vast the unattained. 

Sweeter than any sung 

My songs that found no tongue ; 

Nobler than any fact 

My wish that failed of act. 

Others shall sing the song, 
Others shall right the wrong, 
Finish what I begin, 
And all I fail of, win ! 

The airs of heaven blow o'er me, 
A glory shines before me 
Of what mankind shall be — 
Pure, generous, brave, and free. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Ring, bells in unreared steeples, 
The joy of unborn peoples ! 
Sound, tiumpets far off blown, 
Your triumph is my own! 



NATHAxN HASKELL DOLE. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK.i 



We had been wandering for many days 

Through the rough northern country. We had seen 

The sunset, with its bars of purple cloud, 

Like a new heaven, shine upward from the lake 

Of Winnepiseogee ; and had felt 

The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy aisles 

Which stoop their summer beauty to the lips 

Of the bright waters. We had checked our steeds, 

1 Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, 
married a daughter of Passaconavvay, the great Pennacook 
chieftain, in 1662. The wedding took place at Pennacook 
(now Concord, N. H.), and the ceremonies closed with a 
great feast. According to the usages of the chiefs, Passacona- 
way ordered a select number of his men to accompany the 
newly-married couple to the dwelling of the husband, where 
in turn there was another great feast. Some time after, the 
wife of Winnepurkit expressing a desire to visit her father's 
house, was permitted to go accompanied by a brave escort of 
her husband's chief men. But when she wished to return, her 
father sent a messenger to Saugus, informing her husband, and 
asking him to come and take her away. He returned for 
answer that he had escorted his wife to her father's house in a 
style that became a chief, and that now if she wished to return, 
her father must send her back in the same way. This Passa- 
conaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the 
connection of his daughter with the Saugus chief. — Vide Mor- 
ton's Nezv Canaan, 

I 



2 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK, 

Silent with wonder, where the mountain wall 

Is piled to heaven ; and, through the narrow rift 

Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet 

Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar, 

Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind 

Comes burdened with the everlasting moan 

Of forests and of far-off water-falls. 

We had looked upward where the summer sky, 

Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun. 

Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags 

O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land 

Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed 

The high source of the Saco ; and, bewildered 

In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills, 

Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud. 

The horn of Fabyan sounding ; and atop 

Of old Agioochook had seen the mountains 

Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and 

thick 
As meadow mole hills — the far sea of Casco, 
A white gleam on the horizon of the east ; 
Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ; 
Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge 
Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun ! 

And we had rested underneath the oaks 

Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken 

By the perpetual beating of the falls 

Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked 

The winding Pemigewasset, overhung 

By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks, 

Or lazily gliding through its intervals, 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam 
Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon 
Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines 
Like a great Indian camp-fire ; and its beams 
At midnight spanning with a bridge of silver 
The Merrimack by Uncanoonuc's falls. 

There were five souls of us whom travel's chance 

Had thrown together in these wild north hills ; — 

A city lawyer, for a month escaping 

From his dull office, where the weary eye 

Saw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets - 

Briefless as yet, but with an eye to see 

Life's sunniest side, and with a heart to take 

Its (Chances all as God-sends ; and his brother, 

Pale from long pulpit studies, yet retaining 

The warmth and freshness of a genial heart. 

Whose mirror of the beautiful and true. 

In Man and Nature, was as yet undimmed 

By dust of theologic strife, or breath 

Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore ; 

Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking 

The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers, 

Sweet human faces, white clouds of the noon. 

Slant starlight glimpses through the dewy leaves, 

And tenderest moonrise. 'T was, in truth, a study, 

To mark his spirit, alternating between 

A decent and professional gravity 

And an irreverent mirthfulness, which often 

Laughed in the face of his divinity, 

Plucked oif the. sacred ephod, quite unshrined 

The oracle, and for the pattern priest 



4 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

Left us the man. A shrewd, sagacious merchant, 

To whom the soiled sheet found in Crawford's inn, 

Giving the latest news of city stocks 

And sales of cotton had a deeper meaning 

Than the great presence of the awful mountains 

Glorified by the sunset ; — and his daughter, 

A delicate flower on whom had blown too long 

Those evil winds, which, sweeping from the ice 

And winnowing the fogs of Labrador, 

Shed their cold blight round Massachusetts"' bay, 

With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening 

leaves 
And lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem, 
Poisoning our sea-side atmosphere. 

It chanced 
That as we turned upon our homeward way, 
A drear north-eastern storm came howling up 
The valley of the Saco ; and that girl 
Who had stood with us upon Mount Washington, 
Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled 
In gusts around its sharp cold pinnacle, 
Who had joined our gay trout-fishing in the streams 
Which lave that giant's feet ; whose laugh was heard 
Like a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze 
Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's green 

islands. 
Shrank from its harsh, chill breath, and visibly 

drooped 
Like a flower in the frost. So, in that quiet inn 
Which looks from Conway on the mountains piled 
Heavily against the horizon of the north. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 



And while the mist hung over dripping hills, 

And the cold wind-driven rain-drops, all day long 

Beat their sad music upon roof and pane, 

We strove to cheer our gentle invalid. 

The lawyer in the pauses of the storm 

Went angling down the Saco, and, returning, 

Recounted his adventures and mishaps ; 

Gave us the history of his scaly clients, 

Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations 

Of barbarous law Latin, passages 

From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and fresh 

As the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire 

Where, under aged trees, the south-west wind 

Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair 

Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told. 

Our youthful candidate forsook his sermons. 

His commentaries, articles and creeds 

For the fair page of human loveliness — 

The missal of young hearts, whose sacred text 

Is music, its illumining sweet smiles. 

He sang the songs she loved ; and in his low, 

Deep earnest voice, recited many a page 

Of poetry — the holiest, tenderest lines 

Of the sad bard of Olney — the sweet songs. 

Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature, 

Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal Mount 

Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing 

From the green hills, immortal in his lays. 

And for myself, obedient to her wish, 

I searched our landlord's proffered library : 

A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures 



6 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them — 
Watts'" unmelodioLis psalms — Astrology's 
Last home, a musty file of Almanacs, 
And an old chronicle of border wars 
And Indian history. And, as I read 
A story of the marriage of the Chief 
Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, 
Daughter of Passaconaway, who dwelt 
In the old time upon Merrimack, 
Our fair one, in the playful exercise 
Of her prerogative — the right divine 
Of youth and beauty, — bade us versify 
The legend, and with ready pencil sketched 
Its plan and outlines, laughingly assigning 
To each his part, and barring our excuses 
With absolute will. So, like the cavahers 
Whose voices still are heard in the Romance 
Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks 
Of Arno, with soft tales of love beguiling 
The ear of languid beauty, plague-exiled 
From stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymes 
To their fair auditor, and shared by turns 
Her kind approval and her playful censure. 

It may be that these fragments owe alone 
To the fair setting of their circumstances — 
The associations of time, scene and audience — 
Their place amid the pictures which fill up 
The chambers of my memory. Yet I trust 
That some, who sigh, while wandering in thought, 
Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world. 
That our broad land — our sea-like lakes, and moun- 
tains 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. J 

Piled to the clouds, — our rivers overhung 

By forests which have known no other change 

For ages, than the budding and the fall 

Of leaves — our valleys lovelier than those 

Which the old poets sang of — should but figure 

On the apocryphal chart of speculation 

As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges, 

Rights and appurtenances, which make up 

A Yankee Paradise — unsung, unknown, 

To beautiful tradition ; even their names, 

Whose melody yet lingers like the last 

Vibration of the red man's requiem, 

Exchanged for syllables significant 

Of cotton-mill and rail-car, — will look kindly 

Upon this effort to call up the ghost 

Of our dim Past, and listen with pleased ear 

To the responses of the questioned Shade : 

I. — The Merrimack. 

Oh, child of that white-crested mountain whose 

springs 
Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings, 
Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters 

shine. 
Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the 

dwarf pine. 

From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so 

lone. 
From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of 

stone. 



8 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

By hills hung with forests^ through vales wide and 

free, 
Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the 

sea! 

No bridge arched thy waters save that where the 

trees 
Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in 

the breeze : 
No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores, 
The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars. 

Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amoskeag's fall 
Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall. 
Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn. 
And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with corn. 

But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, 
And greener its grasses and taller its trees. 
Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung, 
Or the mower his scythe in the meadows had swung. 

In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood 
The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood. 
There glided the corn-dance — the Council fire 

shone. 
And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown. 

There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and the 

young 
To the pike and the white perch their baited lines 

flung ; 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 9 

There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy 

maid 
Wove her many-hued baskets and bright wampum 

braid. 

Oh, Stream of the Mountains! if answer of thine 
Could rise from thy waters to question of mine, 
Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a 

moan 
Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone- 

Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel, 
The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel ; 
But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze, 
The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of trees! 



II. — The Bashaba.i 

Lift we the twilight curtains of the Past, 
And turning from familiar sight and sound 

Sadly and full of reverence let us cast 

A glance upon Tradition's shadowy ground, 

Led by the few pale lights, which, glimmering round 
That dim, strange land of Eld, seem dying fast ; 

1 This was the name which the Indians of New England 
gave to two or three of their principal chiefs, to whom all their 
inferior sagamores acknowledged allegiance. Passaconaway 
seems to have been one of these chiefs. His residence was at 
Pennacook. — A/aJj. Hist. Coll., vol. iii., pp. 21, 22. " He was 
regarded," says Hubbard, " as a great sorcerer, and his fame 
was widely spread. It was said of him that he could cause a 
green leaf to grow in winter, trees to dance, water to burn, etc. 



10 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

And that which history gives not to the eye, 

The faded coloring of Time's tapestry, 

Let Fancy, with lier dream-dipped brush supply. 

Roof of bark and walls of pine, 

Through whose chinks the sunbeams shine, 

Tracing many a golden line 

On the ample floor within ; 
Where upon that earth-floor stark. 
Lay the gaudy mats of bark, 
With the bear's hide, rough and dark. 

And the red-deer's skin. 

Window-tracery, small and slight, 
Woven of the willow white. 
Lent a dimly-checkered light, 

And the night-stars glimmered down. 
Where the lodge-fire's heavy smoke, 
Slowly through an opening broke. 
In the low roof, ribbed with oak. 

Sheathed with hemlock brown. 

Gloomed behind the changeless shade. 
By the solemn pine-wood made ; 
Through the rugged palisade. 
In the open fore-ground planted. 

He was, undoubtedly, one of those shrewd and powerful men 
whose achievements are always regarded by a barbarous people 
as the result of supernatural aid. The Indians gave to such 
the names of Powahs or Panisees." 

" The Panisees are men of great courage and wisdom, and 
to these the Devill appeareth more familiarly than to others." 
— Winslows Relation. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. II 

Glimpses came of rowers rowing, 
Stir of leaves and wild flowers blowing, 
Steel-like gleams of water flowing, 
In the sun-light slanted. 

Here the mighty Bashaba, 

Held his long-unquestioned sway, 

From the White Hills, far away, 

To the great sea's sounding shore 
Chief of chiefs, his regal word 
All the river Sachems heard, 
At his call the war-dance stirred, 

Or was still once more. 

There his spoils of chase and war, 
Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw, 
Panther's skin and eagle's claw. 

Lay beside his axe and bow ; 
And, adown the roof-pole hung, 
Loosely on a snake-skin strung, 
In the smoke his scalp-locks swung 

Grimly to and fro. 

Nightly down the river going, 
Swifter was the hunter's rowing. 
When he saw that lodge-fire glowing 

O'er the waters still and red ; 
And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter, 
And she drew her blanket tighter. 
As, with quicker step and lighter, 

From that door she fled. 



12 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 



And a Panisee's dark will. 
Over powers of good and ill, 

Powers which bless and powers which ban 
Wizard lord of Pennacook, 
Chiefs upon their war-path shook, 
When they met the steady look 

Of that wise dark man. 

Tales of him the gray squaw told, 
When the winter night-wind cold 
Pierced her blanket's thickest fold, 

And the fire burned low and small. 
Till the very child a-bed, 
Drew its bear-skin over head, 
Shrinking from the pale lights shed 

On the trembling wall. 

All the subtle spirits hiding 
Under earth or wave, abiding 
In the caverned rock, or riding 

Misty clouds or morning breeze ; 
Every dark intelligence, 
Secret soulj and influence 
Of all things which outward sense 

Feels, or hears or sees, — 

These the wizard's skill confessed. 
At his bidding banned or blessed, 
Stormful woke or lulled to rest 

Wind and cloud, and fire and flood ; 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. I 3 

Burned for him the drifted snow, 
Bade through ice fresh lilies blow, 
And the leaves of summer grow 
Over winter's wood ! 

Not untrue that tale of old ! 
Now, as then, the wise and bold 
All the powers of Nature hold 

Subject to their kingly will ; 
From the wondering crowds ashore, 
Treading life's wild waters o"er. 
As upon a marble floor, 

Moves the strong man still. 

Still, to such, life's elements 
With their sterner laws dispense, 
And the chain of consequence 

Broken in their pathway lies ; 
Time and change their vassals making, 
Flowers from icy pillows waking. 
Tresses of the sunrise shaking 

Over midnijrht skies. 



Still, to earnest souls, the sun 
Rests on towered Gibeon, 
And the moon of Ajalon 

Lights the battle-grounds of life ; 
To his aid the strong reverses, 
Hidden powers and giant forces, 
And the high stars in their courses 

Mingle in his strife! 



14 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 



III. — The Daughter. 

The soot-black brows of men — the yell 
Of women thronging round the bed — 

The tinkling charm of ring and shell — 
The Powah whispering o'er the dead ! — 

All these the Sachem's home had known, 
When, on her journey long and wild 

To the dim World of Souls, alone, 
In her young beauty passed the mother of his child. 

Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling 

They laid her in the walnut shade, 
Where a green hillock gently swelling 

Her fitting mound of burial made. 
There trailed the vine in Summer hours — 

The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell — 
On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers. 
Woven with leaf and spray, the softened sunshine 
fell! 

The Indian's heart is hard and cold — 

It closes darkly o'er its care. 
And, formed in Nature's sternest mould, 

Is slow to feel, and strong to bear. 
The war-paint on the Sachem's face, 

Unwet with tears, shone fierce and red. 
And, still in battle or in chase, 
Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath his foremost 
tread. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 15 

Yet, when her name was heard no more, 
And when the robe her mother gave. 

And small, light moccasin she wore, 
Had slowly wasted on her grave. 

Unmarked of him the dark maids sped 
Their sunset dance and moon-lit play ; 

No other shared his lonely bed, 
No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. 

A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes 

The tempest-smitten tree receives 
From one small root the sap which climbs 
Its topmost spray and crowning leaves, 
So from his child the Sachem drew 
A life of Love and Hope, and felt 
His cold and rugged nature through 
The softness and the warmth of her young being 
melt. 

A laugh which in the woodland rang 
Bemocking April's gladdest bird — 
A light and graceful form which sprang 

To meet him when his step was heard — 
Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark, 

Small fingers stringing bead and shell 
Or weaving mats of bright-hued bark, — 
With these the household-god ^ had graced his wig- 
wam well. 

1 " The Indians," says Roger Williams, " have a god whom 
they call Wetuomanit, who presides over the household." 



1 6 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

Child of the forest ! — strong and free, 
Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair, 

She swam the lake or climbed the tree. 
Or struck the flying bird in air. 

O'er the heaped drifts of Winter's moon 
Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way; 

And dazzling in the Summer noon 
The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray \ 

Unknown to her the rigid rule, 

The dull restraint, the chiding frown, 
The weary torture of the school, 

The taming of wild nature down. 
Her only lore, the legends told 

Around the hunter's fire at night ; 
Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled. 
Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned 
in her sight. 

Unknown to her the subtle skill 

With which the artist-eye can trace 
In rock and tree and lake and hill 

The outlines of divinest grace ; 
Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest 

Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway ; 
Too closely on her mother's breast 
To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay! 

It is enough for such to be 

Of common, natural things a part, 
To feel with bird and stream and tree 

The pulses of the same great heart ; 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 1 7 

But we, from Nature long exiled 

In our cold homes of Art and Thought, 
Grieve like the stranger-tended child, 
Which seeks its mother^s arms, and sees but feels 
them not. 

The garden rose may richly bloom 

In cultured soil and genial air. 
To cloud the light of Fashion's room 

Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair ; 
In loneher grace, to sun and dew 

The sweet-briar on the hill-side shows 
Its single leaf and fainter hue. 
Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose! 

Thus o'er the heart of Weetamoo 
Their mingling shades of joy and ill 

The instincts of her nature threw, — 
The savage was a woman still. 

Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes, 
Heart-colored prophecies of life. 

Rose on the ground of her young dreams 
The light of a new home — the lover and the wife! 



IV. — The Wedding. 

Cool and dark fell the Autumn night. 
But the Bashaba's wigwam glowed with light. 
For down from its roof by green withes hung 
Flaring and smoking the pine-knots swung. 



1 8 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

And along the river great wood fires 
Shot into the night their long red spires, 
Showing behind the tall, dark wood 
Flashing before on the sweeping flood : 

In the changeful wind, with shimmer and shade, 
Now high, now low, that fire-light played, 
On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, 
On gliding water and still canoes. 

The trapper that night on Turee's brook 
And the weary fisher on Contoocook 
Saw over the marshes and through the pine 
And down on the river the dance-lights shine. 

For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo 
The Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo, 
And laid at her father's feet that night 
His softest furs and wampum white. 

From the Crystal Hills to the far South East 
The river Sagamores came to the feast ; 
And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook, 
Sat down on the mats of Pennacook. 

They came from Sunapee's shore of rock, 
From the snowy sources of Snooganock, 
And from rough Coos whose thick woods shake 
Their pine-cones in Umbagog lake. 

From Ammonoosuck's mountain pass 
Wild as his home came Chepewass ; 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 19 

And the Keenomps of the hills which throw 
Their shade on the Smile of Manito. 

With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, 
Glowing with paint came old and young, 
In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed 
To the dance and feast the Bashaba made. 

Bird of the air and beast of the field, 
All which the woods and waters yield 
On dishes of birch and hemlock piled 
Garnished and graced that banquet wild. 

Steaks of the brown bear fat and large 
From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge ; 
Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, 
And salmon spear'd in the Contoocook ; 

Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick 
In the gravelly bed of the Otternic, 
And small wild hens in reed-snares caught 
From the banks of Sondagardee brought ; 

Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, 
Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken, 
Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog. 
And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog : 



In the river scooped by a spirit's hands,^ 

1 There are rocks in the River at the FallS^of Amoskeag, in 
the cavities of which, tradition says, the Indians formerly stored 
and concealed their corn. 



20 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, 
Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn. 

Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, 
All which the woods and the waters yield, 
Furnished in that olden day 
The bridal feast of the Bashaba. 

And merrily when that feast was done 
On the fire-lit green the dance begun, 
With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum 
Of old men beating the Indian drum. 

Painted and plumed, with scalp locks flowing, 
And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, 
Now in the light and now in the shade 
Around the fires the dancers played. 

The step was quicker, the song more shrill. 
And the beat of the small drums louder still 
Whenever within the circle drew 
The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo. 

The moons of forty winters had shed 
Their snow upon that chieftain's head. 
And toil and care, and battle's chance 
Had seamed his hard dark countenance. 

A fawn beside the bison grim — 
Why turns the bride's fond eye on him, 
In whose cold look is naught beside 
The triumph of a sullen pride ? 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 21 

Ask why the graceful grape entwines 
The rough oak with her arm of vines ; 
And why the gray rock's rugged cheek 
The soft Hps of the mosses seek : 

Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems 
To harmonize her wide extremes, 
Linking the stronger with the weak, 
The haughty with the soft and meek! 



The New Home. 



A WILD and broken landscape, spiked with firs, 
Roughening the bleak horizon's northern edge. 

Steep, cavernous hill-side, where black hemlock spurs 
And sharp, gray splinters of the wind-swept ledge 

Pierced the thin-glaz'd ice, or bristling rose, 

Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the 
snows. 



And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away, 
Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree, 

O'er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day 
Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea; 

And faint with distance came the stifled roar, 

The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore. 

No cheerful village with its mingling smokes, 
No laugh of children wrestling in the snow, 

No camp-fire blazing through the hill-side oaks. 
No fishers kneelino: on the ice below : 



22 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 



Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed 
Weetamoo. 

Her heart had found a home ; and freshly all 

Its beautiful affections overgrew 
Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall 

Soft vine leaves open to the moistening dew 
And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife 
Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of 
life. 

The steep bleak hills, the melancholy shore, 
The long dead level of the marsh between, 

A coloring of unreal beauty wore 

Through the soft golden mist of young love seen. 

For o'er those hills and from that dreary plain, 

Nightly she welcomed home her hunter chief again. 

No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feeling 
Repaid her welcoming smile, and parting kiss, 

No fond and playful dalliance half concealing, 
Under the guise of mirth, its tenderness ; 

But, in their stead, the warrior's settled pride. 

And vanity's pleased smile with homage satisfied. 

Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone 
Sat on his mat and slumbered at his side ; 

That he whose fame to her young ear had flown. 
Now looked upon her proudly as his bride ; 

That he whose name the Mohawk trembling heard 

Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 23 

For she had learned the maxims of her race, 
Which teach the woman to become a slave 

And feel herself the pardonless disgrace 

Of love's fond vi^eakness in the wise and brave — 

The scandal and the shame which they incur, 

Who give to woman all which man requires of her. 

So passed the winter moons. The sun at last 
Broke link by link the frost chain of the rills, 

And the warm breathings of the southwest passed 
Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills, 

The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, 

And the birch-tree's tremulous shade fell round the 
Sachem's door.. 

Then from far Pennacook swift runners came, 
With gift and greeting for the Saugus chief; 

Beseeching him in the great Sachem's name, 
That, with the coming of the flower and leaf. 

The song of birds, the warm breeze and the rain. 

Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely sire again. 

And Winnepurkit called his chiefs together. 
And a grave council in his wigwam met. 

Solemn and brief in words, considering whether 
The rigid rules of forest etiquette 

Permitted Weetamoo once more to look 

Upon her father's face and green-banked Pennacook. 

With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water, 
The forest sages pondered, and at length, 



24 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

Concluded in a body to escort her 

Up to her father's home of pride and strength, 
Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense 
Of Winnepurkit's power and regal consequence. 

So through old woods which Aukeetamif s ^ hand 
A soft and many-shaded greenness lent, 

Over high breezy hills, and meadow land 

Yellow with flowers, the wild procession went. 

Till rolling down its wooded banks between, 

A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimack was 
seen. 

The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn — 
The fisher lounging on the pebbled shores, 

Squaws in the clearing dropping the seed-corn, 

Young children peering through the wigwam doors. 

Saw with delight, surrounded by her train 

Of painted Saugus braves, their Weetamoo again. 

VI. — At Pennacook. 

The hills are dearest which our childish feet 

Have climbed the earliest; and the streams most 

sweet. 
Are ever those at which our young lips drank, 
Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy bank : 

Midst the cold dreary sea-watch, Home's hearth-light 
Shines round the helmsman plunging through the 
night ; 
1 The Spring God. — See Roger Williams's Key, etc. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 2$ 

And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees 
In close, dark, stranger streets his native trees. 

The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly fanned 
By breezes whispering of his native land, 
And, on the stranger's dim and dying eye, 
The soft, sweet pictures of his childhood lie! 

Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more 
A child upon her father's wigwam floor! 
Once more with her old fondness to beguile 
From his cold eye the strange light of a smile. 

The long bright days of Summer swiftly passed, 
The dry leaves whirled in Autumn's rising blast, 
And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rime 
Told of the coming of the winter time. 

But vainly looked, the while, young Weetamoo, 
Down the dark river for her chiefs canoe ; 
No dusky messenger from Saugus brought 
The grateful tidings which the young wife sought. 

At length a runner, from her father sent 
To Winnepurkit's sea-cooled wigwam went : 
" Eagle of Saugus, — in the woods the dove 
Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of love." 

But the dark chief of Saugus turned aside 
In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride ; 
" I bore her as became a chieftain's daughter, 
Up to her home beside the gliding water. 



26 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

" If now no more a mat for her is found 

Of all which line her father's wigwam round, 

Let Pennacook call out his warrior train 

And send her back with wampum gifts again." 

The baffled runner turned upon his track, 
Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. 
" Dog of the Marsh," cried Pennacook, " no more 
Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor. 

" Go — let him seek some meaner squaw to spread 
The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed : 
Son of a fish-hawk! — let him dig his clams 
For some vile daughter of the Agawams, 

" Or coward Nipmucks ! — may his scalp dry black 
In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." 
He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave, 
While hoarse assent his listening council gave. 

Alas poor bride ! — can thy grim sire impart 
His iron hardness to thy woman's heart? 
Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone 
For love denied and life's warm beauty flown ? 

On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snow 
Hung its white wreaths ; with stifled voice and low 
The river crept, by one vast bridge o'ercrossed, 
Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost. 

And many a Moon in beauty newly born 
Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn. 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 2/ 

Or, from the east across her azure field, 

Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield. 

Yet Winnepurkit came not — on the mat 
Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat, 
And he, the while, in Western woods afar — 
Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. 

Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief ! 
Waste not on him the sacredness of grief; 
Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own. 



What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights. 
The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, 
Cold, crafty, proud, of woman's weak distress. 
Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness? 



VII. — The Departure. 

The wild March rains had fallen fast and long 
The snowy mountains of the North among, 
Making each vale a water-course — each hill 
Bright with the cascade of some new-made rill. 

Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, 
Heaved underneath by the swollen current's strain, 
The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merrimack 
Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. 



28 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

On that strong turbid water, a small boat 
Guided by one weak hand was seen to float, 
Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, 
Too early voyager with too frail an oar ! 

Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide, 
The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side^ 
The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view, 
With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. 

The trapper, moistening his moose's meat 

On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc''s feet, 

Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream — ■ 

Slept he, or waked he ? — was it truth or dream ? 

The straining eye bent fearfully before. 

The small hand clenching on the useless oar. 

The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the water — 

He knew them all — wo for the Sachem's daughter! 

Sick and aweary of her lonely life. 
Heedless of peril the still faithful wife 
Had left her mother's grave, her father's door. 
To seek the wigwam of her chief once more. 

Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled, 
On the sharp rocks and piled up ices hurled, 
Empty and broken, circled the canoe 
In the vexed pool below — but, where was Weetamoo ? 



THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 29 



VIII. — Song of Indian Women. 

The Dark eye has left us, 

The Spring-bird has flown, 
On the pathway of spirits 
She wanders alone. 
The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore 
Mat woiick kiuma-jHoneel ^ — We hear it no more ! 

Oh, dark water Spirit ! 
We cast on thy wave 
These furs which may never 
Hang over her grave ; 
Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore ; 
Mat wonck kiinna-monee ! — We see her no more ! 

Of the strange land she walks in 

No Powah has told : 
It may burn with the sunshine, 
Or freeze with the cold. 
Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore, 
Mat wojick kimna-monee ! — We see her no more ! 

The path she is treading 

Shall soon be our own ; 
Each gliding in shadow 
Unseen and alone ! — 
In vain shall we call on the souls gone before — 
Afat wonck kiiujia-jnonee I — They hear us no more ! 

1 " Mat wonck kunna-monee." We shall see thee or her 
no more. — Vide Roger Williams's Key to the Indian Language. 



30 THE BRIDAL OF PENNACOOK. 

Oh mighty Sowanna ! ^ 
Thy gateways unfold, 
From the wigwam of sunset 
Lift curtains of gold ! 
Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er — 
Mat woiick kiuuia inojiee ! — We see her no more ! 

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside 
The broad, dark river's coldly-flowing tide. 
Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell 
On the high wind their voices rose and fell. 
Nature's wild music — sounds of wdnd-swept trees, 
The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, 
The roar of waters, steady, deep and strong. 
Mingled and murmured in that farewell song. 

1 " The Great South West God." — See Roger WiUiams's 
Observations, etc. 



LEGENDARY. 



THE MERRIMACK. 

[" The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the South, 
which they call Merrimack." — SlEUR DE MONTS, 1604.] 

Stream of my fathers ! sweetly still 
The sunset rays thy valley fill ; 
Poured slantwise down the long defile, 
Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. 
I see the winding Powow fold 
The green hill in its belt of gold, 
And following down its wavy line, 
Its sparkling waters blend with thine. 
There's not a tree upon thy side. 
Nor rock, which thy returning tide 
As yet hath left abrupt and stark 
Above thy evening water-mark ; 
No calm cove with its rocky hem. 
No isle whose emerald swells begem 
Thy broad, smooth current ; not a sail 
Bowed to the freshening ocean gale ; 
No small boat with its busy oars, 
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; 
Nor farm-house with its maple shade, 
Or rigid poplar colonnade, 
31 



32 LEGENDAR Y. 

But lies distinct and full in sight, 

Beneath this gush of sunset light. 

Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, 

Stretching its length of foam afar, 

And Salisbury''s beach of shining sand. 

And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand, 

Saw the adventurer''s tiny sail 

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale ; i 

And o'er these woods and waters broke 

The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, 

As brightly on the voyager's eye, 

Weary of forest, sea, and sky. 

Breaking the dull continuous wood, 

The Merrimack rolled down his flood ; 

Mingling that clear pellucid brook, 

Which channels vast Agioochook 

When spring-time's sun and shower unlock 

The frozen fountains of the rock, 

And more abundant waters given 

From that pure lake, "The Smile of Heaven," ^ 

Tributes from vale and mountain side — 

With ocean's dark, eternal tide! 

On yonder rocky cape, which braves 
The stormy challenge of the waves. 
Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood. 
The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, 

1 The celebrated Captain Smith, after resigning the govern- 
ment of the colony in Virginia, in his capacity of " Admiral of 
New England," made a careful survey of the coast from Penob- 
scot to Cape Cod, in the summer of 1614. 

2 Lake Winnipiseogee — IVte Smile of the Great Spirit — 
the source of one of the branches of the Merrimack. 



THE MERRIMACK. 33 

Planting upon the topmost crag 
The staff of England's battle-flag ; 
And, while from out its heavy fold 
Saint George's crimson cross unrolled, 
Midst roil of drum and trumpet blare, 
And weapons brandishing in air, 
He gave to that lone promontory 
The sweetest name in all his story ; ^ 
Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters, 
Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters — 
Who, when the chance of war had bound 
The Moslem chain his limbs around, 
Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain. 
Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, 
And fondly to her youthful slave 
A dearer gift than freedom gave. 

But look ! — the yellow light no more 
Streams down on wave and verdant shore ; 
And clearly on the calm air swells 
The twilight voice of distant bells. 
From Ocean's bosom, white and thin 
The mists come slowly rolling in ; 
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, 
Amidst the sea-like vapor swim. 
While yonder lonely coast-light set 
Within its wave-washed minaret, 

1 Captain Smith gave to the promontory, now called Cape 
Ann, the name of Tragabizanda, in memory of his young and 
beautiful mistress of that name, who, while he was a captive at 
Constantinople, like Desdemona, " loved him for the dangers 
he had passed." 



34 LEGENDARY. 

Half quenched, a beamless star and pale, 
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil! 

Home of my fathers! — I have stood 
Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood : 
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade 
Along his frowning Palisade ; 
Looked down the Appalachian peak 
On Juniata's silver streak ; 
Have seen along his valley gleam 
The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; 
The level light of sunset shine 
Through broad Potomac's hem of pine ; 
And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner 
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; 
Yet, wheresoe'er his step might be, 
Thy wandering child looked back to thee ! 
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound 
Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, 
The unforgotten swell and roar 
Of waves on thy familiar shore ; 
And saw, amidst the curtained gloom 
And quiet of his lonely room. 
Thy sunset scenes before him pass ; 
As, in Agrippa's magic glass, 
The loved and lost arose to view. 
Remembered groves in greenness grew, 
Bathed still in childhood's morning dew, 
Along whose bowers of beauty swept 
Whatever Memory's mourners wept. 
Sweet faces, which the charnel kept. 



THE NORSEMEN. 35 

And while the gazer leaned to trace, 
More near, some dear familiar face. 
He wept to find the vision flown — 
A phantom and a dream alone ! 



THE NORSEMEN. 

[Some three or four years since, a fragment of a statue, rudely 
chiselled from dark gray stone, was found in the town of Brad- 
ford, on the Merrimack. Its origin must be left entirely to 
conjecture. The fact that the ancient Northmen visited New 
England, some centuries before the discoveries of Columbus, 
is now very generally admitted.] 

Gift from the cold and silent Past ! 

A rehc to the present cast ; 

Left on the ever-changing strand 

Of shifting and unstable sand, 

Which wastes beneath the steady chime 

And beating of the waves of Time ! 

Who from its bed of primal rock 

First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block ? 

Whose hand, of curious skill untaught. 

Thy rude and savage outline wrought ? 

The waters of my native stream 
Are glancing in the sun's warm beam : 
From sail-urged keel and flashing oar 
The circles widen to its shore ; 
And cultured field and peopled town 
Slope to its willowed margin down. 



36 LEGENDARY. 

Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing 

The mellow sound of church-bells ringing, 

And rolling wheel, and rapid jar 

Of the fire-winged and steedless car. 

And voices from the wayside near 

Come quick and blended on my ear, 

A spell is in this old gray stone — 

My thoughts are with the Past alone ! 

A change! — The steepled town no more 

Stretches along the sail-thronged shore ; 

Like palace-domes in sunsefs cloud, 

Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud! 

Spectrally rising where they stood, 

I see the old, primeval wood : 

Dark, shadow-like, on either hand 

I see its solemn waste expand : 

It climbs the green and cultured hill, 

It arches o'er the valley's rill ; 

And leans from cliff and crag, to throw 

Its wild arms o'er the stream below. 

Unchanged, alone, the same bright river 

Flows on, as it will flow forever! 

I listen, and I hear the low 

Soft ripple where its waters go ; 

I hear behind the panther's cry, 

The wild bird's scream goes thrilling by, 

And shyly on the river's brink 

The deer is stooping down to drink. 

But hark! — from wood and rock flung back, 
What sound comes up the Merrimack? 
What sea-worn barks are those which throw 



THE NORSEMEN. 37 

The light spray from each rushing prow ? 
Have they not in the North Sea's blast 
Bowed to the waves the straining mast ? 
Their frozen sails the low, pale sun 
Of Thuie's night has shone upon ; 
Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep 
Round icy drift, and headland steep. 
Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters 
Have watched them fading o'er the waters, 
Lessening through driving mist and spray, 
Like white-winged sea-birds on their way! 
Onward they glide — and now I view 
Their iron-armed and stalwart crew ; 
Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, 
Turned to green earth and summer sky : 
Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside 
Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide ; 
Bared to the sun and soft warm air, 
Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. 
I see the gleam of axe and spear, 
The sound of smitten shields I hear, 
Keeping a harsh and fitting time 
To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme ; 
Such lays as Zetland's Skald has sung, 
His gray and naked isles among ; 
Or muttered low at midnight hour 
Round Odin's mossy stone of power. 
The wolf beneath the Arctic moon 
Has answered to that startling rune ; 
The Gaal has heard its stormy swell, 
The light Frank knows its summons well ; 
lona's sable-stoled Culdee 



38 LEGENDARY. 

Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, 
And swept with hoary beard and hair 
His altar's foot in trembling prayer! 

'Tis past — the 'wildering vision dies 
In darkness on my dreaming eyes! 
The forest vanishes in air — 
Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare ; 
I hear the common tread of men, 
And hum of work-day life again : 
The mystic relic seems alone 
A broken mass of common stone ; 
And if it be the chiselled limb 
Of Berserkar or idol grim — 
A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, 
The stormy Viking's god of War, 
Of Praga of the Runic lay, 
Or love awakening Siona, 
I know not — for no graven line, 
Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, 
Is left me here, by which to trace 
Its name, or origin, or place. 

Yet, for this vision of the Past, 
This glance upon its darkness cast, 
My spirit bows in gratitude 
Before the Giver of all good. 
Who fashioned so the human mind, 
That, from the waste of Time behind 
A simple stone, or mound of earth. 
Can summon the departed forth ; 



CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 39 

Quicken the Past to life again — 
The Present lose in what hath been, 
And in their primal freshness show 
The buried forms of long ago. 
As if a portion of that Thought 
By which the Eternal will is wrought, 
Whose impulse fills anew with breath 
The frozen solitude of Death, 
To mortal mind were sometimes lent, 
To mortal musings sometimes sent. 
To whisper — even when it seems 
But Memory''s phantasy of dreams — 
Through the mind's waste of woe and sin. 
Of an immortal origin ! 
1841. 



CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 

[In the following ballad, the author has endeavored to dis- 
play the strong enthusiasm of the early Quaker, the short- 
sighted intolerance of the clergy and magistrates, and that 
sympathy with the oppressed, which the " common people," 
when not directly under the control of spiritual despotism, have 
ever evinced. He is not blind to the extravagance of language 
and action which characterized some of the pioneers of Qua- 
kerism in New England, and which furnished persecution with 
its solitary but most inadequate excuse. 

The ballad has its foundation upon a somewhat remarkable 
event in the history of Puritan intolerance. Two young per- 
sons, son and daughter of Lawrence Southwick, of Salem, who 
had himself been imprisoned and deprived of all his property 
for having entertained two Quakers at his house, were fined 



40 LEGENDARY. 

ten pounds each for non-attendance at church, which they were 
unable to pay. The case being represented to the General 
Court, at Boston, that body issued an order, which may still be 
seen on the court records, bearing the signature of Edward 
Rawson, Secretary, by which the treasurer of the County was 
" fully empowered to sell the said persons to any of the English 
nation at Virginia or Barbadoes, to answer said fines." An 
attempt was made to carry this barbarous order into execution, 
but no shipmaster was found willing to convey them to the 
West Indies. — Vide Sewall's History, pp. 225, 226, G. Bishop.] 

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise 
to-day, 

From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the 
spoil away, — 

Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful 
three. 

And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His hand- 
maid free ! 

Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison 

bars. 
Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale 

gleam of stars ; 
In the coldness and the darkness all through the 

long night time, 
My grated casement whitened with Autumn's early 
rime. 

Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept 

by; 
Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the 

sky; 



CASSANDRA SOUTIIIVICK. 41 

No sound amid night's stillness, save that which 

seemed to be 
The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; 

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the 

morrow 
The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my 

sorrow, 
Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for 

and sold. 
Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from 

the fold ! 

Oh, the w^eakness of the flesh was there — the 
shrinking and the shame ; 

And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to 
me came : 

"Why sit'st thou thus forlornly !'' the wicked mur- 
mur said, 

" Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy 
maiden bed? 

"Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and 

sweet, 
Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant 

street ? 
Where be the youths, whose glances the summer 

Sabbath through 
Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew ? 

"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra? — Bethink thee 
with what mirth 



42 LEGENDARY. 

Thy happy schoohnates gather around the warm 

bright hearth ; 
How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads 

white and fair, 
On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. 

" Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee 

kind words are spoken, 
Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing 

boys are broken, 
No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are 

laid, 
For thee no flowers of Autumn the youthful hunters 

braid. 

" Oh ! weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies 
led, 

With wild and raving railers an evil path to 
tread ; 

To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure 
and sound ; 

And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sack- 
cloth-bound. 

" Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things 

divine, 
Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and 

wine ; 
Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the 

pillory lame. 
Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in 

their shame. 



CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 43 

"And what a fate awaits thee? — a sadly toiling 

slave, 
Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage 

to the grave ! 
Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless 

thrall, 
The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all ! " 

Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble 

Nature's fears 
Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing 

tears, 
I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in 

silent prayer, 
To feel, oh, Helper of the weak ! — that Thou indeed 

wert there ! 

I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippics cell, 

And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison- 
shackles fell. 

Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe 
of white. 

And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 

Bless the Lord for all His mercies! — for the peace 

and love I felt. 
Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit 

melt ; 
When, "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language 

of my heart. 
And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts 

depart. 



44 LEGENDARY. 

Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sun- 
shine fell, 

Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my 
lonely cell ; 

The hoar frost melted on the wall, and upward from 
the street 

Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of 
passing feet. 

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was 

open cast. 
And slowly at the sherift's side, up the long street 

I passed ; 
I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared 

not see, 
How, from every door and window, the people gazed 

on me. 

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon 
my cheek, 

Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs 
grew weak : 

" Oh, Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her 
soul cast out 

The fear of man, which brings a snare — the weak- 
ness and the doubt." 

Then the dreary shadows scattered like a cloud in 

morning's breeze. 
And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering 

words like these : 



CASSANDKA SOUTH WICK. 45 

" Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven 

a brazen wall, 
Trust still His loving kindness whose power is 

over all." 

We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit 

waters broke 
On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall 

of rock ; 
The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear 

lines on high, 
Tracing with rope and slender spar their net-work 

on the sky. 

And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and 

grave and cold, 
And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed 

and old, 
And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at 

hand. 
Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the 

land. 

And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready 

ear, 
The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and 

scoff and jeer ; 
It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of 

silence broke, 
As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit 

spoke. 



46 LEGENDARY. 

I cried, " The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the 

meek, 
Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the 

weak ! 
Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones — go turn the 

prison lock 
Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid 

the flock ! " 

Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a 

deeper red 
O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of 

anger spread ; 
" Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, " heed 

not her words so wild. 
Her Master speaks within her — the Devil owns his 

child ! " 

But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, tlie 

while the sheriff read 
That law the wicked rulers against the poor have 

made. 
Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood 

bring 
No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 

Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning 

said : 
'•Which of ye, wortiiy seamen, will take this Quaker 

maid ? 
In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shorj, 
You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl 

or Moor." 



CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 47 

Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when again 

he cried, 
"Speak out, my worthy seamen!'^ — no voice, no 

sign replied ; 
But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words 

met my ear : 
"God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl 

and dear ! " 



A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying 

friend was nigh, 
I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his 

eye; 
And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind 

to me. 
Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of 

the sea : 

"Pile my ship with bars of silver — pack with coins 

of Spanish gold, 
From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her 

hold. 
By the living God who made me ! — I would sooner 

in your bay 
Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child 



"Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their 

cruel laws ! " 
Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's 

just applause. 



48 LEGENDARY. 

" Like the herdsmen of Tekoa, in Israel of old, 
Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver 
sold ?" 

I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half 
way drawn, 

Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate 
and scorn ; 

Fiercely he drew his bridle rein, and turned in silence 
back. 

And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmur- 
ing in his track. 

Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of 

soul ; 
Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed 

his parchment roll. 
" Good friends,'' he said, " since both have fled, the 

ruler and the priest, 
Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well 

released." 

Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round 

the silent bay, 
As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me 

go my way ; 
For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of 

the glen, 
And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts 

of men. 



CASSANDRA SOUTH IVICK. 49 

Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed 

beneath my eye, 
A hoHer wonder round me rose the blue walls of 

the sky, 
A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and 

woodland lay. 
And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the 

bay. 



Thanksgiving to the Lord of life ! — to Him all 
praises be, 

Who from the hands of evil men hath set His hand- 
maid free ; 

All praise to Him before whose power the mighty 
are afraid, 

Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the 
poor is laid ! 

Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight 
calm 

Uplift the loud thanksgiving — pour forth the grate- 
ful psalm ; 

Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints 
of old, 

When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter 
told. 



And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men 

of wrong, 
The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand 

upon the strong. 



50 LEGENDARY. 

Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! 
Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and 
devour : 

But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in heart be 

glad, 
And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise 

be clad, 
For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the 

stormy wave, 
And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save! 

1842. 



FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS.i 

Around Sebago's lonely lake 
There lingers not a breeze to break 
The mirror which its waters make. 

Th« solemn pines along its shore. 
The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, 
Are painted on its glassy floor. 

I Polan, a chief of the Sokokis Indians, the original inhal)i- 
tants of the country lying between Agamenticus and Casco B;iy, 
was killed in a skirmish at Windham, on the Sebago lake, 111 
the spring of 1756. He claimed all the lands on both sides ol 
the Presumpscot River to its mouth at Casco, as his own. He 
was shrewd, subtle, and brave. After the white men had re- 
tired, the surviving Indians " swayed " or bent down a young 
tree until its roots were turned up, placed the body of their 
chief beneath them, and then released the tree to spring back 
to its former position. 



FUNERAL TREE OF THE SO K OK IS. 51 

The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, 
The snowy mountain-tops which He 
Piled coldly up against the sky. 

Dazzling and white ! save where the bleak, 
Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, 
Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. 

Yet green are Saco's banks below. 
And belts of spruce and cedar show. 
Dark fringing round those cones of snow. 

The earth hath felt the breath of spring, 
Though yet on her deliverer's wing 
The lingering frosts of winter cling. 

Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks, 
And mildly from its sunny nooks 
The blue eye of the violet looks. 



And odors from the springing grass, 
The sweet birch and the sassafras, 
Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. 



Her tokens of renewing care 
Hath Nature scattered everywhere. 
In bud and flower, and warmer air. 

But in their hour of bitterness. 
What reck the broken Sokokis, 
Beside their slaughtered chief, of this ? 



52 LEGENDARY. 

The turfs red stain is yet undried — 
Scarce have the death-shot echoes died 
Along Sebago's wooded side : 

And silent now the hunters stand, 
Grouped darkly, where a swell of land 
Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. 

Fire and the axe have swept it bare. 
Save one lone beech, unclosing there 
Its light leaves in the vernal air. 

With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, 
They break the damp turf at its foot. 
And bare its coiled and twisted root. 

They heave the stubborn trunk aside. 
The firm roots from the earth divide — 
The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. 

And there the fallen chief is laid. 
In tasselled garb of skins arrayed. 
And girded with his wampum-braid. 

The silver cross he loved is pressed 
Beneath the heavy arms, which rest 
Upon his scarred and naked breast.^ 

1 The Sokokis were early converts to the Catholic faith. 
Most of them, prior to the year 1756, had removed to the French 
settlements on the St. Frangois. 



FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOR'IS. 53 

'T is done : the roots are backward sent, 
The beechen tree stands up unbent — 
The Indian's fitting monument! 

When of that sleeper's broken race 
Their green and pleasant dwelling-place 
Which knew them once, retains no trace ; 

O ! long may sunset's light be shed 
As now upon that beech's head — 
A green memorial of the dead ! 

There shall his fitting requiem be, 
In northern winds, that, cold and free, 
Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 

To their wild wail the waves which break 
Forever round that lonely lake 
A solemn under-tone shall make ! 

And who shall deem the spot unblest, 
Where Nature's younger children rest. 
Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast ? 

Deem ye that mother loveth less 
These bronzed forms of the wilderness 
She foldeth in her long caress ? 

As sweet o'er them her wild flowers blow, 
As if with fairer hair and brow 
The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. 



54 LEGENDARY. 

What though the places of their rest 
No priestly knee hath ever pressed — 
No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed ? 

What though the bigot's ban be there, 
And thoughts of wailing and despair, 
And cursing in the place of prayer ! ^ 

Yet Heaven hath angels watching round 
The Indian's lowliest forest-mound — 
And t]iey have made it holy ground. 

There ceases man's frail judgment ; all 
His powerless bolts of cursing fall 
Unheeded on that grassy pall. 

O, peeled, and hunted, and reviled, 
Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild! 
Great Nature owns her simple child! 

And Nature's God, to whom alone 
The secret of the heart is known — 
The hidden language traced thereon ; 

Who from its many cumberings 

Of form and creed, and outward things, 

To light the naked spirit brings ; 

1 The brutal and unchristian spirit of the early settlers of 
New England toward the red man is strikingly illustrated in 
the conduct of the man who shot down the Sokokis chief. He 
used to say he always noticed the anniversary of that exploit, as 
" the day on which he sent the devil a present." — Williamson's 
History of Maine. 



ST. JOHN. 55 

Not with our partial eye shall scan — 
Not with our pride and scorn shall ban 
The spirit of our brother man ! 
1 841. 



ST. JOHN. 

[The fierce rivalship of the two French officers, left by the 
death of Razilla in the possession of Acadia, or Nova Scotia, 
forms one of the most romantic passages in the history of the 
New World. Charles St. Estienne, inheriting from his 
father the title of Lord De La Tour, whose seat was at the 
mouth of the St, John's River, was a Protestant; De Aulney 
Charnisy, whose fortress was at the mouth of the Penobscot, 
or ancient Pentagoet, was a Catholic, The incentives of a false 
religious feeling, sectarian intolerance, and personal interest 
and ambition, conspired to render their feud bloody and unspar- 
ing. The Catholic was urged on by the Jesuits, who had found 
protection from Puritan gallows-ropes under his jurisdiction ; 
the Huguenot still smarted under the recollection of his wrongs 
and persecutions in France, Both claimed to be champions of 
that cross from which went upward the holy petition of the 
Prince of Peace : " Father, forgive the)ii!' La Tour received 
aid in several instances from the Puritan colonies of Massachu- 
setts. During one of his voyages for the purpose of obtaining 
arms and provisions for his establishment at St. John, his castle 
was attacked by De Aulney, and successfully defended by its 
high-spirited mistress. A second attack, however, followed in 
the 4th mo, 1647, Lady La Tour defended her castle with a 
desperate perseverance. After a furious cannonade, De Aul- 
ney stormed the walls, and put the entire garrison to the sword. 
Lady La Tour languished a few days only in the hands of her 
inveterate enemy, and died of grief, greatly regretted by the 
colonists of Boston, to whom, as a devoted Protestant, she was 
well known.] 



56 LEGENDARY. 

" To the winds give our banner \ 

Bear homeward again ! " 
Cried the lord of Acadia, 

Cried Charles of Estienne ; 
From the prow of his shallop 

He gazed, as the sun, 
From its bed in the ocean, 

Streamed up the St. John. 



O'er the blue western waters 

That shallop had passed. 
Where the mists of Penobscot 

Clung damp on her mast. 
St. Saviour 1 had look'd 

On the heretic sail. 
As the songs of the Huguenot 

Rose on the gale. 



The pale, ghostly fathers 

Remembered her well, 
And had cursed her while passing, 

With taper and bell, 
But the men of Monhegan,^ 

Of Papists abhorr"'d. 
Had welcomed and feasted 

The heretic Lord. 



1 The settlement of the Jesuits on the island of Mount Desert 
was called St. Saviour. 

2 The isle of Monhegan was one of the first settled on the 
coast of Maine. 



ST. JOHN. 57 



They had loaded his shallop 

With dun-fish and ball, 
With stores for his larder. 

And steel for his wall. 
Pemequid, from her bastions 

And turrets of stone, 
Had welcomed his coming 

With banner and gun. 

And the prayers of the elders 

Had followed his way, 
As homeward he glided, 

Down Pentecost Bay. 
O! well sped La Tour! 

For, in peril and pain, 
His lady kept watch 

For his coming again. 

O'er the Isle of the Pheasant 

The morning sun shone, 
On the plane trees which shaded 

The shores of St. John. 
" Now, why from yon battlements 

Speaks not my love! 
Why waves there no banner 

My fortress above ? " 

Dark and wild, from his deck 
St. Estienne gazed about, 

On fire-wasted dwellings, 
And silent redoubt ; 



58 LEGENDARY. 

From the low, shattered walls 
Which the flame had overrun, 

There floated no banner, 
There thundered no gun! 

But, beneath the low arch 

Of its doorway there stood 
A pale priest of Rome, 

In his cloak and his hood. 
With the bound of a lion, 

La Tour sprang to land, 
On the throat of the Papist 

He fastened his hand. 

" Speak, son of the Woman, 

Of scarlet and sin ! 
What wolf has been prowling 

My castle within ? " 
From the grasp of the soldier 

The Jesuit broke, 
Half in scorn, half in sorrow, 

He smiled as he spoke : 

"No wolf. Lord of Estienne, 

Has ravaged thy hall, 
But thy red-handed rival, 

With fire, steel, and ball! 
On an errand of mercy 

I hitherward came. 
While the walls of thy castle 

Yet spouted with flame. 



S7\ JOHN. 59 



" Pentagoet's dark vessels 

Were moored in the bay, 
Grim sea-lions, roaring 

Aloud for their prey." 
" But what of my lady ? " 

Cried Charles of Estienne : 
" On the shot-crumbled turret 

Thy lady was seen : 

"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloudy 

Her hand grasped thy pennon. 
While her dark tresses swayed 

In the hot breath of cannon! 
But woe to the heretic, 

Evermore woe! 
When the son of the church 

And the cross is his foe! 

"In the track of the shell. 

In the path of the ball, 
Pentagoet swept over 

The breach of the wall ! 
Steel to steel, gun to gun. 

One moment — and then 
Alone stood the victor. 

Alone with his men! 

" Of its sturdy defenders. 

Thy lady alone 
Saw the cross-blazonM banner 

Float over St. John." 



6o LEGENDARY. 

" Let the dastard look to it! " 
Cried fiery Estienne, 

" Were D'Aulney King Louis, 
Fd free lier again! " 

" Alas, for thy lady ! 

No service from thee 
Is needed by her 

Whom the Lord hath set free t 
Nine days, in stern silence, 

Her thraldom she bore, 
But the tenth morning came, 

And Death opened her door!" 

As if suddenly smitten 

La Tour staggered back ; 
His hand grasped his sword-hilt, 

His forehead grew black. 
He sprang on the deck 

Of his shallop again : 
"We cruise now for vengeance! 

Give way!" cried Estienne. 

" Massachusetts shall hear 

Of the Huguenofs wrong, 
And from island and creek-side 

Her fishers shall throng! 
Pentagoet shall rue 

What his Papists have done, 
When his palisades echo 

The Puritan^s gun! " 



PENTUCKET. 6 1 

O ! the loveliest of heavens 

Hung tenderly o'er him, 
There were waves in the sunshine, 

And green isles before him : 
But a pale hand was beckoning 

The Huguenot on ; 
And in blackness and ashes 

Behind was St. John! 
1 841. 



PENTUCKET. 

[The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimack, called by the 
Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventeen years a frontier 
town, and during thirty years endured all the horrors of savage 
warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and 
Indians, under the command of De Challions, and Hertel de 
Rouville, the infamous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made 
an attack upon the village, which at that time contained only 
thirty houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a 
still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy 
also fell, and among them Hertel de Rouville. The minister 
of the place, Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a shot through his 
own door.] 

How sweetly on the wood-girt town 
The mellow light of sunset shone ! 
Each small, bright lake, whose waters still 
Mirror the forest and the hill. 
Reflected from its waveless breast 
The beauty of a cloudless West, 
Glorious as if a glimpse were given 
Within the western gates of Heaven, 



62 LEGENDARY. 

Left, by the spirit of the star 
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar! 

Beside the river's tranquil flood 
The dark and low-walPd dwellings stood, 
Where many a rood of open land 
Stretch'd up and down on either hand. 
With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
The thick and blackened stumps between. 
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread. 
The wild, untravelPd forest spread, 
Back to those mountains, white and cold, 
Of which the Indian trapper told. 
Upon whose summits never yet 
Was mortal foot in safety set. 

Quiet and calm, without a fear 
Of danger darkly lurking near. 
The weary laborer left his plough — 
The milk-maid carolPd by her cow — 
From cottage door and household hearth 
Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. 
At length the murmur died away. 
And silence on that village lay — 
So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, 
Ere the quick earthquake swallow'd all. 
Undreaming of the fiery fate 
Which made its dwellings desolate ! 

Hours pass'd away. By moonlight sped 
The Merrimack along his bed. 
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, 



PENTUCKET. 63 

Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, 
As the hush'd grouping of a dream. 
Yet on the still air crept a sound — 
No bark of fox — nor rabbit's bound — 
Nor stir of wings — nor waters flowing — 
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. 

Was that the tread of many feet, 

Which downward from the hillside beat? 

What forms were those which darkly stood 

Just on the margin of the wood? — 

Charr'd tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, 

Or paling rude, or leafless limb ? 

No — through the trees fierce eye-balls glow'd, 

Dark human forms in sunshine show'd. 

Wild from their native wilderness, 

With painted limbs and battle-dress ! 

A yell, the dead might wake to hear, 
Swell'd on the night air, far and clear — 
Then smote the Indian tomahawk 
On crashing door and shattering lock — 
Then rang the rifle-shot — and then 
The shrill death-scream of stricken men — 
Sank the red axe in woman's brain, 
And childhood's cry arose in vain — 
Bursting through roof and window came. 
Red, fast and fierce, the kindled flame ; 
And blended fire and moonlight glared 
On still dead men and weapons bared. 

The morning sun looked brightly through 
The river willows, wet with dew. 



64 LEGENDARY. 

No sound of combat filPd the air, — 
No shout was heard, — nor gun-shot there 
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 
From smouldering ruins slowly broke, 
And on the green sward many a stain, 
And, here and there, the mangled slain 
Told how that midnight bolt had sped, 
Pentucket, on thy fated head ! 

Even now the villager can tell 
Where Rolfe beside his hearth-stone fell, 
Still show the door of wasting oak 
Through which the fatal death-shot broke, 
And point the curious stranger where 
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare — 
Whose hideous head, in death still fear'd, 
Bore not a trace of hair or beard — 
And still, within the churchyard ground, 
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, 
Whose grass-grown surface overlies 
The victims of that sacrifice. 



THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. 

[The " Pilgrims " of New England, even in their wilderness 
home, were not exempted from the sectarian contentions 
which agitated the mother country after the downfall of 
Charles the First, and of the established Episcopacy. The 
Quakers, Baptists, and Catholics were banished, on pain of 
death, from the Massachusetts Colony. One Samuel Gorton, 



THE FAM I LIST'S HYMN. 65 

a bold and eloquent declaimer, after preaching for a time in 
Boston, against the doctrines of the Puritans, and declaring 
that their churches were mere human devices, and their sacra- 
ment and baptism an abomination, was driven out of the 
State's jurisdiction, and compelled to seek a residence among 
the savages. He gathered round him a considerable number 
of converts, who, like the primitive Christians, shared all 
things in common. His opinions, however, were so trouble- 
some to the leading clergy of the Colony, that they instigated 
an attack upon his " Family " by an armed force, which 
seized upon the principal men in it, and brought them into 
Massachusetts, where they were sentenced to be kept at hard 
labor in several towns (one only in each town), during the 
pleasure of the General Court, they being forbidden, under 
severe penalties, to utter any of their religious sentiments 
except to such ministers as might labor for their conversion. 
They were unquestionably sincere in their opinions, and, 
whatever may have been their errors, deserved to be ranked 
among those who have in all ages suffered for the freedom of 
conscience,] 

Father ! to thy suffering poor 

Strength and grace and faith impart, 
And with Thy own love restore 

Comfort to the broken heart! 
Oh, the faihng ones confirm 

With a holier strength of zeal! — 
Give Thou not the feeble worm 

Helpless to the spoiler's heel! 



Father ! for Thy holy sake 

We are spoiled and hunted thus ; 

Joyful, for Thy truth we take 
Bonds and burthens unto us : 



66 LEGENDARY. 

Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, 
Weary with our daily task. 

That Thy truth may never fall 

Through our weakness. Lord, we ask. 

Round our fired and wasted homes 

Flits the forest-bird unscared. 
And at noon the wild beast conies 

Where our frugal meal was shared ; 
For the song of praises there 

Shrieks the crow the livelong day, 
For the sound of evening prayer 

Howls the evil beast of prey ! 

Sweet the songs we loved to sing 

Underneath Thy holy sky — 
Words and tones that used to bring 

Tears of joy in every eye, — 
Dear the wrestling hours of prayer, 

When we gathered knee to knee. 
Blameless youth and hoary hair, 

BowM, O God, alone to Thee. 

As Thine early children, Lord, 

Shared their wealth and daily bread. 
Even so, with one accord, 

We, in love, each other fed. 
Not with us the miser's hoard, 

Not with us his grasping hand ; 
Equal round a common board. 

Drew our meek and brother band! 



THE FAM I LIST'S HYMN. 6/ 

Safe our quiet Eden lay 

When the war-whoop stirred the land, 
And the Indian turned away 

From our home his bloody hand. 
Well that forest-ranger saw, 

That the burthen and the curse 
Of the white man's cruel law 

Rested also upon us. 

Torn apart, and driven forth 

To our toiling hard and long, 
Father! from the dust of earth 

Lift we still our grateful song! 
Grateful — that in bonds we share 

In Thy love which maketh free ; 
Joyful — that the wrongs we bear. 

Draw us nearer. Lord, to Thee ! 

Grateful! — that where'er we toil — 

By Wachusef s wooded side, 
On Nantucket's sea-worn isle, 

Or by wild Neponsefs tide — 
Still, in spirit, we are near. 

And our evening hymns which rise 
Separate and discordant here, 

Meet and mingle in the skies! 

Let the scoifer scorn and mock, 

Let the proud and evil priest 
Rob the needy of his flock, 

For his wine-cup and his feast, — 



68 LEGENDARY. 

Redden not Thy bolts in store 

Through the blackness of Thy skies ? 

For the sighing of the poor 

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise? 

Worn and wasted, oh, how long 

Sliall Thy trodden poor complain? 
In Thy name they bear the wrong. 

In Thy cause the bonds of pain! 
Melt oppression's heart of steel. 

Let the haughty priesthood see, 
And their blinded followers feel, 

That in us they mock at Thee! 

In Thy time, O Lord of hosts, 

Stretch abroad that hand to save 
Which of old, on Egypt's coasts. 

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave! 
Lead us from this evil land, 

From the spoiler set us free. 
And once more our gather'd band, 

Heart to heart, shall worship Thee! 
1838. 

THE FOUNTAIN. 

[On the declivity of a hill, in Salisbury, Essex County, is a 
beautiful fountain of clear water, gushing out from the very 
roots of a majestic and venerable oak. It is about two miles 
firom the junction of the Powow River with the Merrimack.] 

Traveller! on thy journey toiling 

By the swift Powow, 
With the summer sunshine falling 

On thy heated brow, 



THE FOUNTAIN. 69 

Listen, while all else is still 
To the brooklet from the hill. 

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing 

By that streamlet's side, 
And a greener verdure showing 

Where its waters glide — 
Down the hill-slope murmuring on, 
Over root and mossy stone. 

Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth 

O'er the sloping hill, 
Beautiful and freshly springeth 

That soft-flowing rill, 
Through its dark roots wreath'd and bare, 
Gushing up to sun and air. 

Brighter waters sparkled never 

In that magic well, 
Of whose gift of life for ever 

Ancient legends tell, — 
In the lonely desert wasted. 
And by mortal lip untasted. 

Waters which the proud Castilian ^ 

Sought with longing eyes. 
Underneath the bright pavilion 

Of the Indian skies ; 
Where his forest pathway lay 
Through the blooms of Florida. 

1 De Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds 
of the new world in search of gold and the fountain of perpetual 
youth. 



70 LEGENDARY. 

Years ago a lonely stranger, 

With the dusky brow 
Of the outcast forest-ranger, 

Crossed the swift Powow ; 
And betook him to the rill, 
And the oak upon the hill. 

O'er his face of moody sadness 

For an instant shone 
Something like a gleam of gladness, 

As he stooped him down 
To the fountain's grassy side 
And his eager thirst supplied. 

With the oak its shadow throwing 

O'er his mossy seat, 
And the cool, sweet waters flowing 

Softly at his feet, 
Closely by the fountain's rim 
That lone Indian seated him. 

Autumn's earliest frost had given 

To the woods below 
Hues of beauty, such as Heaven 

Lendeth to its bow ; 
And the soft breeze from the west 
Scarcely broke their dreamy rest. 

Far behind was Ocean striving 
With his chains of sand ; 

Southward, sunny glimpses giving, 
'Twixt the swells of land. 



THE FOUNTAIN. J\ 

Of its calm and silvery track, 
Rolled the tranquil Merrimack. 

Over village, wood and meadow, 

Gazed that stranger man 
Sadly, till the twilight shadow 

Over all things ran. 
Save where spire and westward pane 
Flashed the sunset back again. 

Gazing thus upon the dwelling 

Of his warrior sires, 
Where no lingering trace was telling 

Of their wigwam fires. 
Who the gloomy thoughts might know 
Of that wandering child of woe t 

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing. 

Hills that once had stood, 
Down their sides the shadows throwing 

Of a mighty wood, 
Where the deer his covert kept, 
And the eagle's pinion swept ! 

Where the birch canoe had glided 

Down the swift Powow, 
Dark and gloomy bridges strided 

Those clear waters now ; 
And where once the beaver swam, 
Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam. 

For the wood-bird's merry singing. 
And the hunter's cheer, 



72 



LEGENDARY. 

Iron clang and hammer's ringing 

Smote upon his ear ; 
And the thick and sullen smoke 
From the blackened forges broke. 

Could it be, his fathers ever 

Loved to linger here ? 
These bare hills — this conquered river - 

Could they hold them dear. 
With their native loveliness 
Tamed and tortured into this ? 

Sadly, as the shades of even 

Gathered o'er the hill, 
While the western half of Heaven 

Blushed with sunset still, 
From the fountain's mossy seat 
Turned the Indian's weary feet. 

Year on year hath flowii for ever, 

But he came no more 
To the hill-side or the river 

Where he came before. 
But the villager can tell 
Of that strange man's visit well. 

And the merry children, laden 
With their fruits or flowers — 

Roving boy and laughing maiden, 
In their school-day hours, 

Love the simple tale to tell 

Of the Indian and his well. 

837. 



THE EXILES. 73 



THE EXILES. 

[The incidents upon which the following ballad has its 
foundation, occurred about the year 1660. Thomas Macey was 
one of the first, if not the first white settler of Nantucket. A 
quaint description of his singular and perilous voyage, in his 
own hand-writing, is still preserved.] 

The goodman sat beside his door 

One sultry afternoon, 
With his young wife singing at his side 

An old and goodly tune. 

A glimmer of heat was in the air, — 
The dark green woods were still ; 

And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud 
Hung over the western hill. 

Black, thick, and vast, arose that cloud 

Above the wilderness, 
As some dark world from upper air 

Were stooping over this. 

At times a solemn thunder pealed, 

And all was still again, 
Save a low murmur in the air 

Of coming wind and rain. 

Just as the first big rain-drop fell, 

A weary stranger came. 
And stood before the farmer's door, 

With travel soiled and lame. 



74 LEGENDARY. 

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope 

Was in his quiet glance, 
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed 

His tranquil countenance. 



A look, like that his Master wore 

In Pilate's council-hall : 
It told of wrongs — but of a love 

Meekly forgiving all. 

"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?" 

The stranger meekly said ; 
And, leaning on his oaken staff, 

The goodman's features read. 

" My life is hunted — evil men 

Are following in my track ; 
The traces of the torturer's whip 

Are on my aged back. 

" And much, I fear, 'twill peril thee 

Within thy doors to take 
A hunted seeker of the Truth, 

Oppressed for conscience' sake." 

Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife — 
"Come in, old man! " quoth she, — 

" We will not leave thee to the storm, 
Whoever thou may'st be." 



THE EXILES. 75 

Tlien came the aged wanderer in, 

And silent sat him down ; 
While all within grew dark as night 

Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. 



But while the sudden lightning's blaze 

Filled every cottage nook, 
And with the jarring thunder-roll 

The loosened casement shook, 



A heavy tramp of horses' feet 

Came sounding up the lane, 
And half a score of horse, or more, 

Came plunging through the rain. 

" Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door, — 
We would not be house-breakers ; 

A rueful deed thou'st done this day. 
In harboring banished Quakers." 

Out looked the cautious goodman then, 

With much of fear and awe, 
For there, with broad wig drenched with rain, 

The parish priest he saw. 

" Open thy door, thou wicked man, 

And let thy pastor in. 
And give God thanks, if forty stripes 

Repay thy deadly sin." 



'j6 LEGENDARY. 

"What seek ye?" quoth the goodman, — 
" The stranger is my guest ; 

He is worn with toil and grievous wrong. 
Pray let the old man rest." 



" Now, out upon thee, canting knave! " 
And strong hands shook the door, 

"Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, — 
"Thou'lt rue thy conduct sore." 

Then kindled Macey's eye of fire : 
*' No priest who walks the earth, 

Shall pluck away the stranger-guest 
Made welcome to my hearth." 

Down from his cottage wall he caught 

The matchlock, hotly tried 
At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, 

By fiery Ireton's side ; 



Where Puritan, and Cavalier, 

With shout and psalm contended ; 

And Rupert's oath, and CromwelPs prayer, 
With battle-thunder blended. 



Up rose the ancient stranger then 

" My spirit is not free 
To bring the wrath and violence 

Of evil men on thee : 



THE EXILES. 77 

" And for thyself, I pray forbear, — 

Bethink thee of thy Lord, 
Who healed again the smitten ear. 

And sheathed his follower's sword. 



"I go, as to the slaughter led : 
Friends of the poor, farewell! " 

Beneath his hand the oaken door 
Back on its hinges fell. 



" Come forth, old gray-beard, yea and nay ; " 

The reckless scoifers cried. 
As to a horseman's saddle-bow 

The old man's arms were tied. 



And of his bondage hard and long 

In Boston's crowded jail. 
Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, 

With sickening childhood's wail, 

It suits not with our tale to tell : 
Those scenes have passed away — 

Let the dim shadows of the past 
Brood o'er that evil day. 

" Ho, sheriff ! " quoth the ardent priest — 

" Take goodman Macey too ; 
The sin of this day's heresy, 

His back or purse shall rue." 



yS LEGENDARY. 

And priest and sheriff, both together 
Upon his threshold stood, 

When Macey, through another door, 
Sprang out into the wood. 



"Now, goodwife, haste thee!^^ Macey cried, 

She caught his manly arm : — 
Behind, the parson urged pursuit, 

With outcry and alarm. 



Ho! speed the Maceys, neck or naught, 
The river course was near : — 

The plashing on its pebbled shore 
Was music to their ear. 



A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, 

Above the waters hung, 
And at its base, with every wave, 

A small light wherry swung. 



A leap — they gain the boat — and there 
The goodman wields his oar : 

" 111 luck betide them all " — he cried, — 
'' The laggards upon the shore.'' 



Down through the crashing under-wood, 

The burly sheriff came : — 
"Stand, goodman Macey — yield thyself; 

Yield in the Kins^'s own name." 



THE EXILES. 79 



" Now out upon thy hangman's face ! " 
Bold Macey answered then, — 

" Whip women, on the village green, 
But meddle not with iJien^ 



The priest came panting to the shore,— 
His grave cocked hat was gone : 

Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung 
His wig upon a thorn. 



" Come back — come back ! " the parson cried, 

"The church's curse beware." 
*' Curse an thou wilt," said Macey, " but 

Thy blessing prithee spare." 

" Vile scoffer! " cried the baffled priest, — 

" Thou'lt yet the gallows see." 
" Who's born to be hanged, will not be drowned," 

Quoth Macey merrily ; 



" And so, sir sheriff and priest, good bye ! " 

He bent him to his oar. 
And the small boat glided quietly 

From thq twain upon the shore. 

Now in the west, the heavy clouds 

Scattered and fell asunder, 
While feebler came the rush of rain. 

And fainter growled the thunder. 



8o LEGENDARY. 

^^ And through the broken clouds, the sun 
Looked out serene and warm, 
Painting its holy symbol-light 
Upon the passing storm. 

Oh, beautiful! that rainbow span, 
O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ; — 

One bright foot touched the eastern hills, 
And one with ocean blended. 



By green Pentucket's southern slope 
The small boat glided fast, — 

The watchers of " the Block-house " saw 
The strangers as they passed. 

That night a stalwart garrison 

Sat shaking in their shoes. 
To hear the dip of Indian oars, — • 

The glide of birch canoes. 

The fisher-wives of Salisbury, 

(The men were all away) , 
Looked out to see the stranger oar 

Upon their waters play. 

Deer-Island\s rocks and fir-trees threw 
Their s^inset-shadows o'er them, 

And Newbury's spire and weathercock 
Peered o'er the pines before them. 



THE EXILES. 8 1 

Around the Black Rocks, on their left, 

The marsh lay broad and green ; 
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, 

Plum Island^s hills were seen. 



With skilful hand and wary eye 
The harbor-bar was crossed ; — 

A plaything of the restless wave, 
The boat on ocean tossed. 

The glory of the sunset heaven 
On land and water lay, — 

On the steep hills of Agawam, 
On cape, and bluff, and bay. 



They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, 
And Gloucester's harbor-bar \ 

The watch-fire of the garrison 
Shone like a setting star. 



How brightly broke the morning 

On Massachusetts' Bay! 
Blue wave, and bright green island. 

Rejoicing in the day. 

On passed the bark in safety 

Round isle and headland steep — 

No tempest broke above them, 
No fog-cloud veiled the deep. 



82 LEGENDARY. 

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape 
The vent'rous Macey passed, 

And on Nantucket's naked isle, 
Drew up his boat at last. 

And how, in log-built cabin, 

They braved the rough sea-weather ; 

And there, in peace and quietness. 
Went down life's vale together : 

How others drew around them. 
And how their fishing sped. 

Until to every wind of heaven 
Nantucket's sails were spread : 



How pale want alternated 
With plenty's golden smile ; 

Behold, is it not written 
In the annals of the isle? 



And yet that isle remaineth 
A refuge of the free. 

As when true-hearted Macey 
Beheld it from the sea. 



Free as the winds that winnow 
Her shrubless hills of sand — 

Free as the waves that batter 
Along her yielding land. 



THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 83 

Than hers, at duty's summons, 

No loftier spirit stirs, — 
Nor falls o'er human suffering 

A readier tear than hers. 

God bless the sea-beat island ! — 

And grant for evermore, 
That charity and freedom dwell, 

As now upon her shore ! 
1 841. 



THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 

[The following Ballad is founded upon one of the marvel- 
lous legends connected with the famous General M., of 
Hampton, N.H., who was regarded by his neighbors as a 
Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, 
as I heard it when a child, from a venerable family visitant.] 

Dark the halls, and cold the feast — 
Gone the bridesmaids, gone the priest! 
All is over — all is done. 
Twain of yesterday are one ! 
Blooming girl and manhood gray, 
Autumn in the arms of May! 

Hushed within and hushed without, 
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout ; 
Dies the bonfire on the hill ; 
All is dark and all is still, 



84 LEGENDARY. 

Save the starlight, save the breeze 
Moaning through the grave-yard trees ; 
And the great sea-waves below, 
Like the night's pulse, beating slow. 

From the brief dream of a bride 
She hath wakened, at his side. 
With half uttered shriek and start — 
Feels she not his beating heart? 
And the pressure of his arm, 
And his breathing near and warm ? 

Lightly from the bridal bed 
Springs that fair dishevelled head, 
And a feeling, new, intense, 
Half of shame, half innocence. 
Maiden fear and wonder speaks 
Through her lips and changing cheeks. 

From the oaken mantel glowing 
Faintest light the lamp is throwing 
On the mirror's antique mould. 
High-backed chair, and wainscot old. 
And, through faded curtains stealing, 
His dark sleeping face revealing. 

Listless lies the strong man there, 
Silver-streaked his careless hair ; 
Lips of love have left no trace 
On that hard and haughty face ; 
And that forehead's knitted thought 
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought. 





'' While she speaketh, falls the lif^lit 
O'er her flnaers small aiul white.' 



THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 85 

" Yet," she sighs, " he loves me well, 
More than these calm lips will tell. 
Stooping to my lowly state, 
He hath made me rich and great, 
And I bless him, though he be 
Hard and stern to all save me ! " 

While she speaketh, falls the light 
O'er her fingers small and white ; 
Gold and gem, and costly ring 
Back the timid lustre fling — 
Love's selectest gifts, and rare. 
His proud hand had fastened there. 

Gratefully she marks the glow 
From those tapering lines of snow ; 
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending 
His black hair with golden blending, 
In her soft and light caress. 
Cheek and lip together press. 

Ha ! — that start of horror ! — Why 
That wild stare and wilder cry. 
Full of terror, full of pain ? 
Is there madness in her brain? 
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low: 
" Spare me — spare me — let me go ! " 

God have mercy! — Icy cold 
Spectral hands her own enfold. 
Drawing silently from them 
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem. 



86 LEGENDARY. 

" Waken ! save me ! " still as death 
At her side he slumbereth. 



Ring and bracelet all are gone, 
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ; 
But she hears a murmur low, 
Full of sweetness, full of woe, 
Half a sigh and half a moan : 
"Fear not! give the dead her own! 



Ah! — the dead wife's voice she knows! 
That cold hand whose pressure froze, 
Once in warmest life had borne 
Gem and band her own hath worn. 
" Wake thee ! wake thee ! " Lo, his eyes 
Open with a dull surprise. 

In his arms the strong man folds her, 
Closer to his breast he holds her ; 
Trembling limbs his own are meeting. 
And he feels her heart's quick beating : 
"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?" 
" Hush! " she saith, " the dead is here! " 



"Nay, a dream — an idle dream." 
But before the lamp's pale gleam 
Tremblingly her hand she raises, — 
There no more the diamond blazes. 
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, — 
" Ah ! " she sighs, " her hand was cold ! " 



THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 8/ 

Broken words of cheer he saith, 

But his dark Up quivereth, 

And as o'er the past he thinketh, 

From his young wife's arms he shrinketh ; 

Can those soft arms round him He, 

Underneath his dead wife's eye? 

She her fair young head can rest 

Soothed and child-like on his breast^ 

And in trustful innocence 

Draw new strength and courage thence •, 

He, the proud man, feels within 

But the cowardice of sin! 



She can murmur in her thought 
Simple prayers her mother taught, 
And His blessed angels call, 
Whose great love is over all ; 
He, alone, in prayerless pride, 
Meets the dark Past at her side! 

One, who living shrank with dread, 
From his look, or word, or tread, 
Unto whom her early grave 
Was as freedom to the slave, 
Moves him at this midnight hour, 
With the dead's unconscious power! 

Ah, the dead, the unforgot! 

From their solemn homes of thought, 



88 LEGENDARY. 

Where the cypress shadows blend 
Darkly over foe and friend, 
Or in love or sad rebuke. 
Back upon the living look. 

And the tenderest ones and weakest, 
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, 
Lifting from those dark, still places, 
Sweet and sad-remembered faces, 
O'er the guilty hearts behind 
An unwitting triumph find. 

1843. 



VOICES OF FREEDOM. 



THE SLAVE SHIPS. 

" That fatal, that perfidious bark, 
Built i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." 

Milton'' s Lycidas. 

[The French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-two 
men, and with one hundred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from 
Bonny, in Africa, April, 1819. On approaching the line, a 
terrible malady broke otit — an obstinate disease of the eyes — 
contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine. 
It was aggravated by the scarcity of water among the slaves 
(only half a wine-glass per day being allowed to an individual), 
and by the extreme impurity of the air in which they breathed. 
By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck 
occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves 
in each other's arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so 
universally prevails among them, of being swiftly transported 
to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the captain 
ordered several, who were stopped in the attempt, to be shot, 
or hanged, before their companions. The disease extended to 
the crew ; and one after another were smitten with it, until 
only one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful condition 
did not preclude calculation : to save the expense of supporting 
slaves rendered unsalable, and to obtain grounds for a claim 
against the underwriters, thirty-six of the negroes, having 
beco77ie blind, were thrown into the sea and drowned! 

89 



90 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the sohtary indi- 
vidual, whose sight remained unaffected, should also be seized 
whh the malady, a sail was discovered. It was the Spanish 
slaver, LEON. The same disease had been there ; and, horrible 
to tell, all the crew had become blind ! Unable to assist each 
other, the vessels parted. The Spanish ship has never since 
been heard of. The RODEUR reached Guadaloupe on the 21st 
of June ; the only man who had escaped the disease, and had 
thus been enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it in 
three days after its arrival. — Speech of M. Benjamin Constant, 
in the French Chamber of Deputies, June 17, 1820.] 

" All ready ? " cried the captain ; 

" Ay, ay ! " the seamen said ; 
" Heave up the worthless lubbers — 

The dying and the dead." 
Up from the slave-ship's prison 

Fierce, bearded heads were thrust — 
" Now let the sharks look to it — 

Toss up the dead ones first!" 

Corpse after corpse came up, — 

Death had been busy there; 
Where every blow is mercy. 

Why should the spoiler spare? 
Corpse after corpse they cast 

Sullenly from the ship, 
Yet bloody with the traces 

Of fetter-link and whip. 

Gloomily stood the captain. 

With his arms upon his breast. 
With his cold brow sternly knotted, 

And his iron lip compressed. 



THE SLAVE SHIPS. 9 1 

"Are all the dead dogs over?" 

Growled through that matted lip — 

"The blind ones are no better, 
Lefs lighten the good ship." 

Hark! from the ship's dark bosom, 

The very sounds of hell! 
The ringing clank of iron — 

The maniac's short, sharp yell ! — 
The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled — 

The starving infant's moan — 
The horror of a breaking heart 

Poured through a mother's groan! 

Up from that loathsome prison 

The stricken blind ones came : 
Below, had all been darkness — 

Above, was still the same. 
Yet the holy breath of heaven 

Was sweetly breathing there, 
And the heated brow of fever 

Cooled in the soft sea air. 

"Overboard with them, shipmates!" 

Cutlass and dirk were plied ; 
Fettered and blind, one after one. 

Plunged down the vessel's side. 
The sabre smote above — 

Beneath, the lean shark lay. 
Waiting with wide and bloody jaw 

His quick and human prey. 



92 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

God of the earth ! what cries 

Rang upward unto Thee? 
Voices of agony and blood, 

From ship-deck and from sea. 
The last dull plunge was heard — 

The last wave caught its stain - 
And the unsated shark looked up 

For human hearts in vain. 



Red glowed the western waters — 

The setting sun was there, 
Scattering alike on wave and cloud 

His fiery mesh of hair. 
Amidst a group in blindness, 

A solitary eye 
Gazed, from the burdened slaver's deck, 

Into that burning sky. 

" A storm," spoke out the gazer, 

" Is gathering and at hand — 
Curse on't — I'd give my other eye 

For one firm rood of land." 
And then he laughed — but only 

His echoed laugh replied — 
For the blinded and the suffering 

Alone were at his side. 

Night settled on the waters, 

And on a stormy heaven. 
While fiercely on that lone ship's track 

The thunder-gust was driven. 



THE SLAVE SHIPS. 93 

"A sail! —thank God, a sail!" 

And, as the helmsman spoke, 
Up through the stormy murmur, 

A shout of gladness broke. 

Down came the stranger vessel 

Unheeding on her way. 
So near, that on the slaver's deck 

Fell off her driven spray. 
" Ho ! for the love of mercy — 

We're perishing and blind ! " 
A wail of utter agony 

Came back upon the wind : 

" Help us I for we are stricken 

With blindness every one ; 
Ten days we've floated fearfully, 

Unnoting star or sun. 
Our ship's the slaver Leon — 

We've but a score on board — 
Our slaves are all gone over — 

Help — for the love of God!" 

On livid brows of agony 

The broad red lightning shone — 
But the roar of wind and thunder 

Stifled the answering groan. 
Wailed from the broken waters 

A last despairing cry. 
As, kindling in the stormy light, 

The stranger ship went by. 



94 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

In the sunny Guadaloupe 

A dark-hulled vessel lay — 
With a crew who noted never 

The night-fall or the day. 
The blossom of the orange 

Was white by every stream, 
And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird 

Were in the warm sun-beam. 

And the sky was bright as ever, 

And the moonlight slept as well, 
On the palm trees by the hill-side. 

And the streamlet of the dell ; 
And the glances of the Creole 

Were still as archly deep, 
And her smiles as full as ever 

Of passion and of sleep. 

But vain were bird and blossom, 

The green earth and the sky, 
And the smile of human faces, 

To the slaver^s darkened eye ; 
At the breaking of the morning. 

At the star-lit evening time, 
O'er a world of light and beauty, 

Fell the blackness of his crime. 

1834. 



OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS. 95 



STANZAS. 

[" The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their 
native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her re- 
formed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. 
Shall the United States — the free United States, which could 
not bear the bonds of a king, cradle the bondage which a king 
is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy? 
Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be less 
energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age? " — Dr. 
Fallen's Address. 

" Genius of America ! — Spirit of our free institutions — where 
art thou? — How art thou fallen, O Lucifer ! son of the morning 
— how art thou fallen from Heaven ! Hell from beneath is 
moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming! — The kings of 
the earth cry out to thee. Aha! Aha! — ART THOU BECOME 
LIKE UNTO US ? "—Speech of Samuel J. May.] 

Our fellow-countrymen in chains! 

Slaves — in a land of light and law! 
Slaves — crouching on the very plains 

Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war! 
A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood — 

A wail where Camden's martyrs fell — 
By every shrine of patriot blood, 

From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well! 

By storied hill and hallowed grot, 
By mossy wood and marshy glen. 

Whence rang of old the rifle-shot. 
And hurrying shout of Marion's men ! 



96 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

The groan of breaking hearts is there — 
The falling lash — the fetter's clank ! 

Slaves — SLAVES are breathing in that air, 
Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank! 

What, ho! — c'/zr countrymen in chains! 

The whip on woman's shrinking flesh! 
Our soil yet reddening with the stains. 

Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh 
What! mothers from their children riven! 

What! God's own image bought and sold! 
Americans to market driven. 

And bartered as the brute for gold! 

Speak ! shall their agony of prayer 

Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ? 
To us whose fathers scorned to bear 

The paltry menace of a chain ; 
To us, whose boast is loud and long 

Of holy Liberty and Light — 
Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong 

Plead vainly for their plundered Right ? 

What! shall we send, with lavish breath, 

Our sympathies across the wave. 
Where Manhood, on the field of death, 

Strikes for his freedom, or a grave? 
Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung 

For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning. 
And millions hail with pen and tongue 

Our light on her altars burning? 



OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS, 97 

Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, 

By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall, 
And Poland, gasping on her lance, 

The impulse of our cheering call ? 
And shall the slave, beneath our eye, 

Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain? 
And toss his fettered arms on high. 

And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain ? 

Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be 

A refuge for the stricken slave? 
And shall the Russian serf go free 

By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave? 
And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane 

Relax the iron hand of pride. 
And bid his bondman cast the chain 

From fettered soul and limb, aside? 



Shall every flap of England's flag 

Proclaim that all around are free. 
From "farthest Ind" to each blue crag 

That beetles o'er the Western Sea? 
And shall we scoff at Europe's kings, 

When Freedom's fire is dim with us, 
And round our country's altar clings 

The damning shade of Slavery's curse ? 

Go — let us ask of Constantine 

To loose his grasp on Poland's throat ; 
And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line 

To spare the struggling Suliote — 



98 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Will not the scorching answer come 
From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ 

" Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, 
Then turn, and ask the like of us ! " 



Just God! and shall we calmly rest. 

The Christian's scorn — the heathen's mirth - 
Content to live the lingering jest 

And by-word of a mocking Earth ? 
Shall our own glorious land retain 

That curse which Europe scorns to bear? 
Shall our own brethren drag the chain 

Which not even Russia's menials wear? 

Up, then, in Freedom's manly part. 

From gray-beard eld to fiery youth, 
And on the nation's naked heart 

Scatter the living coals of Truth! 
Up — while ye slumber, deeper yet 

The shadow of our fame is growing! 
Up — while ye pause, our sun may set 

In blood, around our altars flowing! 

Oh ! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth — 

The gathered wrath of God and man — 
Like that which wasted Egypt's earth. 

When hail and fire above it ran. 
Hear ye no warnings in the air? 

Feel ye no earthquake underneath ? 
Up — up — why will ye slumber where 

The sleeper only wakes in death ? 



•N 




The Yankee Girl. 



THE YANKEE GIRL. 99 

Up now for Freedom! — not in strife 

Like that your sterner fathers saw — 
The awful waste of human Hfe — 

The glory and the guilt of war : 
But break the chain — the yoke remove, 

And smite to earth Oppression's rod, 
With those mild arms of Truth and Love, 

Made mighty through the living God! 

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink, 

And leave no traces where it stood ; 
Nor longer let its idol drink 

His daily cup of human blood : 
But rear another altar there, 

To Truth and Love and Mercy given, 
And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer, 

Shall call an answer down from Heaven! 

1834. 



THE YANKEE GIRL. 

She sings at her wheel, at that low cottage-door, 
Which the long evening shadow is stretching before. 
With a music as sweet as the music which seems 
Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams ! 

How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, 
Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky! 
And lightly and freely her dark tresses play 
O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they! 



100 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Who comes in his pride to that low cottage-door — 

The haughty and rich to the humble and poor? 

'T is the great Southern planter — the master who 

waves 
His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. 

" Nay, Ellen — for shame ! Let those Yankee fools 

spin, 
Who would pass for our slaves with a change of 

their skin ; 
Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, 
Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel ! 

"But thou art too lovely and precious a gem 
To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them — 
For shame, Ellen, shame! — cast thy bondage aside, 
And away to the South, as my blessing and pride. 

" Oh, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, 
But where flowers are blossoming all the year long. 
Where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home, 
And the lemon and orange are white in their bloom! 

"Oh, come to my home, where my servants shall all 

Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call ; 

They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and 

awe. 
And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." 

Oh, could ye have seen her — that pride of our girls — 
Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls. 



TO W. L. G. lOI 

With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, 
And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel! 

"Go back, haughty Southron! thy treasures of gold 
Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold ; 
Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear 
The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear! 

" And the sky of thy South may be brighter than 

ours, 
And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers ; 
But, dearer the blast round our mountains which 

raves, 
Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over 

slaves ! 

" Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, 
With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel ; 
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be 
In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee!" 

1835. 



TO W. L. G. 

Champion of those who groan beneath 

Oppression's iron hand : 
In view of penury, hate, and death, 

I see thee fearless stand. 
Still bearing up thy lofty brow. 

In the steadfast strength of truth, 
In manhood sealing well the vow 

And promise of thy youth. 



102 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Go on! — for thou hast chosen well ; 

On in the strength of God! 
Long as one human heart shall swell 

Beneath the tyrant's rod. 
Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, 

As thou hast ever spoken, 
Until the dead in sin shall hear — 

The fetter's link be broken ! 



I feel my pulses thrill, 
To mark thy spirit soar above 

The cloud of human ill. 
My heart hath leaped to answer thine, 

And echo back thy words. 
As leaps the warrior's at the shine 

And flash of kindred swords ! 

They tell me thou art rash and vain — 

A searcher after fame — 
That thou art striving but to gain 

A long-enduring name — 
That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand. 

And steeled the Afric's heart. 
To shake aloft his vengeful brand, 

And rend his chain apart. 

Have I not known thee well, and read 

Thy mighty purpose long! 
And watched the trials which have made 

Thy human spirit strong? 



SONG OF THE FREE. 1 03 

And shall the slanderer's demon breath 

Avail with one like me, 
To dim the sunshine of my faith 

And earnest trust in thee ? 

Go on — the dagger''s point may glare 

Amid thy pathway's gloom — 
The fate which sternly threatens there 

Is glorious martyrdom! 
Then onward with a martyr's zeal — 

Press on to thy reward — 
The hour when man shall only kneel 

Before his Father — God. 

1833. 



SONG OF THE FREE. 

["Living, I shall assert the right of FREE DISCUSSION; 
dying, I shall assert it ; and, should I leave no other inherit- 
ance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them 
the inheritance of FREE PRINCIPLES, and the example of a 
manly and independent defence of them." — Daniel We6ster.'\ 

Pride of New England! 

Soul of our fathers! 
Shrink we all craven-like, 

When the storm gathers? 
What though the tempest be 

Over us lowering, 
Where 's the New Englander 

Shamefully cowering? 



104 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Graves green and holy 
Around us are lying, — 

Free were the sleepers all. 
Living and dying! 

Back with the Southerner's 

Padlocks and scourges! 
Go — let him fetter down 

Ocean's free surges! 
Go — let him silence 

Winds, clouds, and waters - 
Never New England's own 

Free sons and daughters! 
Free as our rivers are 

Oceanward going — 
Free as the breezes are 

Over us blowing. 

Up to our altars, then, 

Haste we, and summon 
Courage and loveliness, 

Manhood and woman! 
Deep let our pledges be : 

Freedom for ever! 
Truce with oppression, 

Never, oh! never! 
By our own birthright-gift. 

Granted of Heaven — 
Freedom for heart and lip. 

Be the pledge given! 

If we have whispered truth. 
Whisper no longer ; 



THE HUNTERS OF MEN. 105 

Speak as the tempest does, 

Sterner and stronger ; 
Still be the tones of truth 

Louder and firmer, 
Startling the haughty South 

With the deep murmur : 
God and our charter's right, 

Freedom for ever! 
Truce with oppression, 

Never, oh! never! 



1836. 



THE HUNTERS OF MEN. 

Written on reading the report of the proceedings of the Ameri- 
can Colonization Society at its annual meeting in 1834. 

Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and 

glen, 
Through cane-brake and forest — the hunting of men ? 
The lords of our land to this hunting have gone. 
As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn : 
Hark! — the cheer and the hallo! — the crack of the 

whip, 
And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip! 
All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match — 
Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to 

catch . 
So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, 
Through cane-brake and forest — the hunting of 



I06 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Gay luck to our hunters! — how nobly they ride 

In the glow of their zeal, in the strength of their 

pride ! — 
The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, 
Just screening the politic statesman behind — 
The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer — 
The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. 
And woman — kind woman — wife, widow, and maid — 
For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid : 
Her foot's in the stirrup — her hand on the rein — 
How blithely she rides to the hunting of men! 



Oh ! goodly and grand is our hunting to see, 

In this "land of the brave and this home of the 

free." 
Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to 

Maine, 
All mounting the saddle — all grasping the rein — 
Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin 
Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin! 
Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay! 
Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and 

prey ? 
Will their hearts fail within them ? — their nerves 

tremble, when 
All roughly they ride to the hunting of men ? 

Ho! — ALMS for our hunters! all weary and faint 
Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. 
The horn is wound faintly — the echoes are still, 
Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. 



CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. \OJ 

Haste — alms for our hunters ! the hunted once more 
Have turned from their flight with their backs to the 

shore : 
What right have they here in the home of the white, 
Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and 

Right? 
Ho! — ahns for the hunters! or never again 
Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men! 



Alms — alms for our hunters! why ivill ye delay, 
When their pride and their glory are melting away? 
The parson has turned ; for, on charge of his own, 
Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone? 
The politic statesman looks back with a sigh — 
There is doubt in his heart — there is fear in his 

eye. 
Oh ! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, 
And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. 
Oh! haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then, 
For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ? 

1835- 



CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 

[In the Report of the celebrated pro-slavery meeting in 
Charleston, S. C, on the 4th of the 9th month, 1835, published 
in the " Courier " of that city, it is stated, " The CLERGY of 
all denominations attetided in a body, LENDING THEIR SANCTION 
TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the 
impressive character of the scene! "] 



I08 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Just God! — and these are they 
Who minister at Thine altar, God of Right! 
Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay 

On Israel's Ark of light! 

What! preach and kidnap men? 
Give thanks — and rob Thy own afflicted poor? 
Talk of Thy glorious liberty, and then 

Bolt hard the captive's door? 

What ! servants of Thy own 
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save 
The homeless and the outcast, — fettering down 

The tasked and plundered slave! 

Pilate and Herod, friends ! 
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine! 
Just God and holy! is that church, which lends 

Strength to the spoiler, Thine? 

Paid hypocrites, who turn 
Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book 
Of those high words of truth which search and burn 

In warning and rebuke ; 

Feed fat, ye locusts, feed! 
And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord 
That, from the toiling bondsman's utter need, 

Ye pile your own full board. 



CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 



109 



How long, O Lord! how long 
Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, 
And, in Thy name, for robbery and wrong 

At Thy own altars pray? 

Is not Thy hand stretched forth 
Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite ? 
Shall not the living God of all the earth, 

And heaven above, do right? 

Woe, then, to all who grind 
Their brethren of a common Father down! 
To all who plunder from the immortal mind 

Its bright and glorious crown! 

Woe to the priesthood! woe 
To those whose hire is with the price of blood — 
Perverting, darkening, changing as they go. 

The searching truths of God! 

Their glory and their might 
Shall perish ; and their very names shall be 
Vile before all the people, in the light 

Of a world's liberty. 

Oh! speed the moment on 
When Wrong shall cease — and Liberty, and Love, 
And Truth, and Right, throughout the earth be 
known 

As in their home above. 
1836. 



no VOICES OF FREEDOM. 



THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE. 

[In a late publication of L. F. Tasistro, " Random Shots 
and Southern Breezes," is a description of a slave auction at 
New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the 
woman on the stand as " A GOOD CHRISTIAN ! "] 

A Christian! going, gone! 
Who bids for God's own image? — for His grace 
Which that poor victim of the market-place 

Hath in her suiferino- won? 



My God! can such things be? 
Hast thou not said that whatsoe'er is done 
Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one, 

Is even done to Thee? 



In that sad victim, then, 
Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand - 
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, 



A Christian up for sale! 
Wet with her blood your whips — o'ertask her 

frame, 
Make her life loathsome with your WTong and 
shame. 
Her patience shall not fail! 



THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE, m 

A heathen hand might deal 
Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years, 
But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears 

Ye neither heed nor feel. 

Con well thy lesson o'er, 
Thou prudent teacher — tell the toiling slave 
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save 

The outcast and the poor. 

But wisely shut the ray 
Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart, 
And to her darkened mind alone impart 

One stern command — " Obey! " ^ 

So shalt thou deftly raise 
The market price of human flesh : and while 
On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile, 

Thy church shall praise. 

Grave, reverend men shall tell 
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest. 
While in that vile South Sodom, first and best, 

Thy poor disciples sell. 

1 There is in Liberty County, Georgia, an Association for 
the religious instruction of Negroes. Their seventh annual 
report contains an address by the Rev. Josiah Spry Law, from 
which we extract the following : — " There is a growing interest, 
in this community, in the religious instruction of Negroes. 
There is a conviction that religious instruction promotes the 
quiet and order of the people, and the pecuniary interest of the 
owners." 



112 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Oh, shame ! the Moslem thrall. 
Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, 
While turning to the sacred Kebla feels 

His fetters break and fall. 

Cheers for the turbaned Bey 
Of robber-peopled Tunis ! he hath torn 
The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne 

Their inmates into day : 

But our poor slave in vain 
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes — 
Its rites will only swell his market price, 

And rivet on his chain. ^ 

God of all right ! how long 
Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand. 
Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand 

And haughty brow of wrong? 

Oh, from the fields of cane, 
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell — 
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome 
hell, 

And coffle's weary chain, — 

1 We often see advertisements in the Southern papers, in 
which individual slaves, or several of a lot, are recommended 
as "pious" or as ''members of churches" Lately we saw a 
slave advertised, who, among other qualifications, was de- 
scribed as " a Baptist preacher." 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 1 13 

Hoarse, horrible, and strong, 
Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, 
Filling the arches of the hollow sky, 

How LONG, Oh God, how long? 
1843. 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.^ 

Is this the land our fathers loved, 

The freedom which they toiled to win ? 

Is this the soil whereon they moved? 
Are these the graves they slumber in? 

Are we the sons by whom are borne 

The mantles which the dead have worn? 

And shall we crouch above these graves. 
With craven soul and fettered lip? 

Yoke in with marked and branded slaves, 
And tremble at the dri verb's whip ? 

Bend to the earth our pliant knees, 

And speak — but as our masters please ? 



1 The " Times " alluded to were those evil times of the pro- 
slavery meeting in B'aneuil Hall, for the suppression of free- 
dom of speech, lest it should endanger the foundations of 
commercial society. In view of the outrages which a care- 
ful observation of the times had enabled him to foresee must 
spring from the false witness borne against the abolitionists by 
the speakers at that meeting well might Garrison say of them, 
" I consider the man who fires a city guiltless in comparison." 



114 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ? 

Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow? 
Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel — 

The dungeon's gloom — the assassin's blow, 
Turn back the spirit roused to save 
The Truth, our Country, and the Slave? 

Of human skulls that shrine was made. 
Round which the priests of Mexico 

Before their loathsome idol prayed — 
Is Freedom's altar fashioned so? 

And must we yield to Freedom's God, 

As offering meet, the negro's blood? 

Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought 
Which well might shame extremest hell ? 

Shall freemen lock the indignant thought? 
Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell? 

Shall Honor bleed? — Shall Truth succumb? 

Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb ? 

No — by each spot of haunted ground, 

Where Freedom weeps her children's fall — 

By Plymouth's rock, and Bunker's mound — 
By Griswold's stained and shattered wall — 

By Warren's ghost — by Langdon's shade — 

By all the memories of our dead! 

By their enlarging souls, which burst 
The bands and fetters round them set — 

By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed 
Within our inmost bosoms, yet, — 

By all above — around — below — 

Be ours the indignant answer — NO ! 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. I 15 

No — guided by our country's laws, 

For truth, and right, and suffering man, 

Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause, 
As Christians may — as freemen caii I 

Still pouring on unwilling ears 

That truth oppression only fears. 

What ! shall we guard our neighbor still, 
While woman shrieks beneath his rod, 

And while he tramples down at will 
The image of a common God! 

Shall watch and ward be round him set, 

Of Northern nerve and bayonet? 

And shall we know and share with him 



Which should have filled the world with flame? 
And, writhing, feel, where'er we turn, 
A world's reproach around us burn ? 

Is 't not enough that this is borne? 

And asks our hearty neighbor more ? 
Must fetters which his slaves have worn, 

Clank round the Yankee farmer's door? 
Must he be told beside his plough, 
What he must speak, and when, and how? 

Must he be told his freedom stands 

On Slavery's dark foundations strong — 

On breaking hearts and fettered hands. 
On robbery, and crime, and wrong? 

That all his fathers taught is vain — 

That Freedom's emblem is the chain? 



Il6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Its life — its soul, from slavery drawn? 

False — foul — profane ! Go — teach as well 
Of holy Truth from Falsehood born! 

Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell! 
Of Virtue in the arms of Vice! 
Of Demons planting Paradise! 

Rail on, then, " brethren of the South" — 
Ye shall not hear the truth the less — 

No seal is on the Yankee's mouth, 
No fetter on the Yankee press! 

From our Green Mountains to the Sea, 

One voice shall thunder — we are free! 

1835- 



LINES. 

Written on reading the spirited and manly remarks of Governor 
RiTNER, of Pennsylvania, in his Message of 1836, on the 
subject of Slavery. 

Thank God for the token! — one lip is still free — 
One spirit untrammelled — unbending one knee! 
Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm, 
Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm ; 
When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God, 
Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood ; 
When the recreant North has forgotten her trust. 
And the hp of her honor is low in the dust, — 
Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has 
broken! 



RITNER. I 1 7 

Thank God, that one man, as 2i freeman, has spoken! 
O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown! 
Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone! 
To the land of the South — of the charter and 

chain — 
Of Liberty sweetened with Slavery's pain ; 
Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips 
Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips! 
VVHiere " chivalric" honor means really no more 
Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor! 
Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high. 
And the words which he utters are — Worship, or 



Riglit onward, oh, speed it! Wherever the blood 
Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God ; 
Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining ; 
Wherever the lash of the driver is twining ; 
Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart. 
Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart ; 
Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind. 
In silence and darkness, the God-given mind ; 
There, God speed it onward! — its truth will be 

felt — 
The bonds shall be loosened — the iron shall melt! 



And oh, will the land where the free soul of Penn 
Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen — 
Will the land where a Benezet's spirit went forth 
To the peeled, and the meted, and outcast of 
Earth — 



Il8 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Where the words of the Charter of Liberty first 
From the soul of the sage and the patriot burst — 
Where first for the wronged and the weak of their 

kind, 
The Christian and statesman their efforts com- 
bined — 
Will that land of the free and the good wear a 

chain? 
Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain? 

No, Ritner! — her " Friends," at thy warning shall 

stand 
Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band ; 
Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, 
Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime ; 
Turning back from the cavil of creeds, to unite 
Once again for the poor in defence of the Right ; 
Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of Wrong, 
Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges along; 
Unappalled by the danger, the shame, and the pain. 
And counting each trial for Truth as their gain! 

And that bold-hearted yeomanry, honest and true, 
Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due ; 
Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine. 
On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine — 
The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave 
The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave : ^ — 

1 It is a remarkable fact that the first testimony of a religious 
body against negro slavery was that of a Society of German 
" Friends" in Pennsylvania. 



PASTORAL LETTER. 



119 



Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the 

South 
One brow for the brand — for the padlock one 

mouth ? 
They cater to tyrants ? — they rivet the chain. 
Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again? 

No, never! one voice, like the sound in the cloud, 
When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more loud, 
Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed 
Yxom. the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the West, 
On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow 
Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below ! 
The voice of a people — uprisen — awake — 
Pennsylvania's watchword, with Freedom at stake, 
Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each 

height, 
'•Our Country and Liberty! — God for the 

Right!" 
1837. — .o— 

LINES. 

Written on reading the famous " PASTORAL LETTER " of the 
Massachusetts General Association, 1837. 

So, this is all — the utmost reach 

Of priestly power the mind to fetter! 
When laymen think — when women preach — 

A war of words — a " Pastoral Letter! " 
Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes! 

Was it thus with those, your predecessors, 
Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes 

Their loving kindness to transgressors? 



I20 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

A " Pastoral Letter," grave and dull — 

Alas! in hoof and horns and features, 
How different is your Brookfield bull, 

From him who bellows from St. Peter's! 
Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, 

Think ye, can words alone preserve them? 
Your wiser fathers taught the arm 

And sword of temporal power to serve them. 

Oh, glorious days — when church and state 

Were wedded by your spiritual fathers! 
And on submissive shoulders sat 

Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. 
No vile " itinerant " then can mar 

The beauty of your tranquil Zion, 
But at his peril of the scar 

Of hangman's whip and branding-iron. 

Then, wholesome laws relieved the church 

Of heretic and mischief-maker, 
And priest and bailiff joined in search, 

By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker ! 
The stocks were at each church's door. 

The gallows stood on Boston Common, 
A Papist's ears the pillory bore, — 

The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman! 

Your fathers dealt not as ye deal 
With '-'• non-professing " frantic teachers ; 

They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, 
And flayed the backs of "female preachers." 



PASTORAL LETTER. 

Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue, 

And Salem's streets, could tell their story. 

Of fainting woman dragged along, 

Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory! 

And will ye ask me, why this taunt 

Of memories sacred from the scorner? 
And why with reckless hand I plant 

A nettle on the graves ye honor? 
Not to reproach New England's dead 

This record from the past I summon, 
Of manhood to the scaiTold led. 

And suffering and heroic woman. 

No — for yourselves alone, I turn 

The pages of intolerance over, 
That, in their spirit, dark and stern, 

Ye haply may your own discover! 
For, if ye claim the " pastoral right " 

To silence Freedom's voice of warning, 
And from your precincts shut the light 

Of Freedom's day around ye dawning ; 

If when an earthquake voice of power, 

And signs in earth and heaven are showing 
That, forth, in its appointed hour, 

The Spirit of the Lord is going! 
And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light 

On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, 
Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, 

In glory and in strength are waking! 



122 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

When for the sighing of the poor, 

And for the needy, God hath risen, 
And chains are breaking, and a door 

Is opening for the souls in prison! 
If then ye would, with puny hands. 

Arrest the very work of Heaven, 
And bind anew the evil bands 

Which God's right arm of power hath riven 

What marvel that, in many a mind. 

Those darker deeds of bigot madness 
Are closely with your own combined, 

Yet " less in anger than in sadness " ? 
What marvel, if the people learn 

To claim the right of free opinion ? 
What marvel, if at times they spurn 

The ancient yoke of your dominion? 

Oh, how contrast, with such as ye, 

A Leavitt's free and generous bearing! 
A Perry's calm integrity, 

A PHELp's.zeal and Christian daring! 
A Follen's soul of sacrifice. 

And May's with kindness overflowing! 
How green and lovely in the eyes 

Of freemen are their graces growing! 

Ay, there's a glorious remnant yet, 

Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, 

The coming of whose welcome feet 
Is beautiful upon our mountains! 



PASTORAL LETTER. 1 23 

Men, who the gospel tidings bring 

Of Liberty and Love forever, 
Whose joy is one abiding spring, 

Whose peace is as a gentle river! 

But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale 

Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, 
Which echoes here the mournful wail 

Of sorrow from Edisto's waters, 
Close while ye may the public ear — 

With malice vex, with slander wound them — 
The pure and good shall throng to hear. 

And tried and manly hearts surround them. 

Oh, ever may the power which led 

Their way to such a fiery trial, 
And strengthened womanhood to tread 

The wine-press of such self-denial, 
Be round them in an evil land. 

With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, 
With Miriam''s voice, and Judith's hand, 

And Deborah's song for triumph given! 

And what are ye who strive with God, 

Against the ark of his salvation. 
Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, 

With blessings for a dying nation ? 
What, but the stubble and the hay 

To perish, even as flax consuming. 
With all that bars His glorious way, 

Before the brightness of His coming? 



124 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

And thou sad Angel, who so long 

Hast waited for the glorious token, 
That Earth from all her bonds of wrong 

To liberty and light has broken — 
Angel of Freedom ! soon to thee 

The sounding trumpet shall be given, 
And over Earth's full jubilee 

Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven! 

1837. 



LINES. 

Written for the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Chat- 
ham Street Chapel, N.Y., held on the 4th of the 7th month, 
1834. 

O Thou, whose presence went before 

Our fathers in their weary way. 
As with Thy chosen moved of yore 

The fire by night — the cloud by day! 

When from each temple of the free, 
A nation's song ascends to Heaven, 

Most Holy Father! unto Thee 

May not our humble prayer be given ? 

Thy children all — though hue and form 
Are varied in Thine own good will — 

With Thy own holy breathings warm, 
And fashioned in Thine image still. 



LINES. 125 

We thank Thee, Father! — hill and plain 

Around us wave their fruits once more, 

And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, 



And peace is here ; and hope and love 
Are round us as a mantle thrown, 

And unto Thee, supreme above, 
The knee of prayer is bowed alone. 

But oh, for those this day can bring, 
As unto us, no joyful thrill — 

For those who, under Freedom^s wing. 
Are bound in Slavery^s fetters still : 

For those to whom Thy living w^ord 
Of hght and love is never given — 

For those whose ears have never heard 
The promise and the hope of Heaven! 

For broken heart, and clouded mind. 
Whereon no human mercies fall — 

Oh, be Thy gracious love inclined. 
Who, as a father, pitiest all! 

And grant, O Father! that the time 
Of Earth's deliverance may be near. 

When every land, and tongue, and clime, 
The message of Thy love shall hear — 



126 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 



The captive's chain shall sink in dust, 
And to his fettered soul be given 
The glorious freedom of the just! 

1834. 



LINES. 



Written for the celebration of the Third Anniversary of British 
Emancipation, at the Broadway Tabernacle, N.Y., " First of 
August," 1837. 

O HOLY Father! — just and true 

Are all Thy works and words and ways, 
And unto Thee alone are due 

Thanksgiving and eternal praise! 
As children of Thy gracious care, 

We veil the eye — we bend the knee, 
With broken words of praise and prayer, 

Father and God, we come to Thee. 



For Thou hast heard, O God of Right, 

The sighing of the island slave ; 
And stretched for him the arm of might, 

Not shortened that it could not save. 
The laborer sits beneath his vine, 

The shackled soul and hand are free — 
Thanksgiving! — for the work is Thine! 

Praise! — for the blessing is of Thee! 



LINES. 



27 



And oh, we feel Thy presence here — 

Thy awful arm in judgment bare! 
Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear — 

Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer! 
Praise! — for the pride of man is low, 

The counsels of the wise are naught. 
The fountains of repentance flow ; 

What hath our God in mercy wrought? 



Speed on Thy work, Lord God of Hosts! 

And when the bondman's chain is riven, 
And swells from all our guilty coasts 

The anthem of the free to Heaven, 
Oh, not to those whom Thou hast led. 

As with Thy cloud and fire before. 
But unto Thee, in fear and dread, 

Be praise and glory ever more. 

1837. 



LINES. 

Written for the Anniversary celebration of the First of August, 
at Milton, 1846. 

A FEW brief years have passed away 

Since Britain drove her million slaves 
Beneath the tropic's fiery ray : 
God willed their freedom ; and to-day 
Life blooms above those island graves! 



128 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

He spoke ! across the Carib sea, 

We heard the clash of breaking chains, 

And felt the heart-throb of the free, 

The first, strong pulse of liberty 

Which thrilled along the bondman^'s veins. 



Though long delayed, and far, and slow, 

The Briton's triumph shall be ours ; 
Wears slavery here a prouder brow 
Than that which twelve short years ago 
Scowled darkly from her island bowers ? 

Mighty alike for good or ill 

With mother-land we fully share 

The Saxon strength — the nerve of steel — 

The tireless energy of will, — 

The power to do, the pride to dare. 

What she has done can we not do ? 

Our hour and men are both at hand ; 
The blast which Freedom's angel blew 
O'er her green island, echoes through 

Each valley of our forest land. 



Hear it, old Europe ! we have sworn 

The death of slavery. — When it falls 
Look to your vassals in their turn, 
Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn, 
Your prisons and your palace walls ! 



LINES. 1 29 

Oh kingly mockers! — scoffing show 
What deeds in Freedom^s name we do ; 

Yet know that every taunt ye throw 

Across the waters, goads our slow 

Progression towards the right and true. 



Not always shall your outraged poor, 

Appalled by democratic crime, 
Grind as their fathers ground before, — 
The hour which sees our prison door 

Swing wide shall be tJieir triumph time. 

Oh then, my brothers! every blow 

Ye deal is felt the wide earth through ; 
Whatever here uplifts the low 
Or humbles Freedom's hateful foe. 

Blesses the Old World through the New. 

Take heart! The promised hour draws near 

I hear the downward beat of wings. 
And Freedom's trumpet sounding clear — 
Joy to the people! — woe and fear 

To new world tyrants, old world kings ! 
1846. 



I30 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 



THE FAREWELL. 

Of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters, sold 
INTO Southern bondage. 

Gone, gone — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 

Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, 

Where the noisome insect stings, 

Where the fever demon strews 

Poison with the falling dews, 

Where the sickly sunbeams glare 

Through the hot and misty air, — 
Gone, gone — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 



To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
There no mother's eye is near them. 
There no mother's ear can hear them ; 
Never, when the torturing lash 
Seams their back with many a gash. 
Shall a mother's kindness bless them, 
Or a mother's arms caress them. 
Gone, gone — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 




" Woe is me, my stolen daughter: 



FAREWELL OF SLAVE AI OTHER. 13 

Gone, gone — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, 
From the fields at night they go. 
Faint with toil, and racked with pain, 
To their cheerless homes again — 
There no brother's voice shall greet them — 
There no father's welcome meet them. 
Gone, gone — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 

Gone, gone — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From the tree whose shadow lay 
On their childhood's place of play — 
From the cool spring where they drank — 
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank — 
From the solemn house of prayer, 
And the holy counsels there — 
Gone, gone — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone — sold and gone. 

To the rice-swamp dank and lone — 

Toiling through the weary day. 

And at night the spoiler's prey. 

Oh, that they had earlier died. 

Sleeping calmly, side by side, 



132 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Where the tyrant's power is o'er 
And the fetter galls no more ! 

Gone, gone — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters! 

Gone, gone — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
By the holy love He beareth — 
By the bruised reed He spareth — 
Oh, may He, to whom alone 
All their cruel wrongs are known, 
Still their hope and refuge prove, 
With a more than mother's love. 
Gone, gone — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 
1838. 



ADDRESS. 

Written for the opening of " PENNSYLVANIA HALL," dedicated 
to Free Discussion, Virtue, Liberty, and Independence, on 
the 15th of the 5th month, 1838. 

Not with the splendors of the days of old. 

The spoil of nations, and " barbaric gold " — 

No weapons wrested from the fields of blood, 

Where dark and stern the unyielding Roman stood, 

And the proud eagles of his cohorts saw 

A world, war-wasted, crouching to his law — 



ADDRESS. 133 

Nor blazoned car — nor banners floating gay, 
Like tliose which swept along the Appian way, 
When, to the welcome of imperial Rome, 
The victor warrior came in triumph home. 
And trumpet-peal, and shoutings wild and high, 
Stirred the blue quiet of the Italian sky ; 
But calm and grateful, prayerful and sincere. 
As Christian freemen, only, gathering here, 
We dedicate our fair and lofty Hall, 
Pillar and arch, entablature and wall, 
As Virtue's shrine — as Liberty's abode — 
Sacred to Freedom, and to Freedom's God! 



Oh! loftier halls, 'neath brighter skies than these, 

Stood darkly mirrored in the /Egean seas. 

Pillar and shrine — and life-like statues seen, 

Graceful and pure, the marble shafts between, 

Where glorious Athens from her rocky hill 

Saw Art and Beauty subject to her will — 

And the chaste temple, and the classic grove — 

The hall of sages — and the bowers of love. 

Arch, fane, and column, graced the shores, and gave 

Their shadows to the blue Saronic wave ; 

And statelier rose,, on Tiber's winding side, 

The Pantheon's dome — the Coliseum's pride — 

The Capitol, whose arches backward flung 

The deep, clear cadence of the Roman tongue. 

Whence stern decrees, like words of fate, went forth 

To the awed nations of a conquered earth. 

Where the proud C^sars in their glory came. 

And Brutus lightened from his lips of flame! 



134 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Yet in the porches of Athena's halls, 

And in the shadows of her stately v/alls, 

Lurked the sad bondman, and his tears of woe 

Wet the cold marble with unheeded flow ; 

And fetters clanked beneath the silver dome 

Of the proud Pantheon of imperious Rome. 

Oh! not for him — the chained and stricken slave — 

By Tiber's shore, or blue ^gina's wave, 

In the thronged forum, or the sages' seat. 

The bold lip pleaded, and the warm heart beat ; 

No soul of sorrow melted at his pain. 

No tear of pity rusted on his chain ! 

But this fair Hall, to Truth and Freedom given, 

Pledged to the Right before all Earth and Heaven, 

A free arena for the strife of mind, 

To caste, or sect, or color unconlined, 

Shall thrill with echoes, such as ne'er of old 

From Roman hall, or Grecian temple rolled ; 

Thoughts shall find utterance, such as never yet 

The Propylaea or the Forum met. 

Beneath its roof no gladiator's strife 

Shall win applauses with the waste of life ; 

No lordly lictor urge the barbarous game — 

No wanton Lais glory in her shame.. 

But here the tear of sympathy shall flow, 

As the ear listens to the tale of woe ; 

Here, in stern judgment of the oppressor's wrong — 

Shall strong rebukings thrill on Freedom's tongue — 

No partial justice hold the unequal scale — 

No pride of caste a brother's rights assail — 

No tyrant's mandates echo from this wall. 



ADDRESS. 135 

Holy to Freedom and the Rights of All! 
But a fair field, where mind may close with mind, 
Free as the sunshine and the chainless wind ; 
Where the high trust is fixed on Truth alone, 
And bonds and fetters from the soul are thrown ; 
Where wealth, and rank, and worldly pomp, and might, 
Yield to the presence of the True and Right. 

And fitting is it that this Hall should stand 

Where Pennsylvania's Founder led his band, 

From thy blue waters, Delaware ! — to press 

The virgin verdure of the wilderness. 

Here, where all Europe with amazement saw 

The souPs high freedom trammelled by no law ; 

Here, where the fierce and warlike forest-men 

Gathered in peace, around the home of Penn, 

Awed by the weapons Love alone had given, 

Drawn from the holy armory of Heaven ; 

Where Nature's voice against the bondman's wrong 

First found an earnest and indignant tongue ; 

Where Lay's bold message to the proud was borne. 

And Keith's rebuke, and Franklin's manly scorn — 

Fitting it is that here, where Freedom first 

From her fair feet shook off the Old World's dust. 

Spread her white pinions to our Western blast. 

And her free tresses to our sunshine cast, 

One Hall should rise redeemed from Slavery's ban — 

One Temple sacred to the Rights of Man! 

Oh ! if the spirits of the parted come. 
Visiting angels, to their olden home ; 
If the dead fathers of the land look forth 



136 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

From their far dwellings, to the things of earth — 
Is it a dream that with their eyes of love. 
They gaze now on us from the bowers above ? 
Lay's ardent soul — and Benezet the mild, 
Steadfast in faith, yet gentle as a child — 
Meek-hearted Woolman, — and that brother-band, 
The sorrowing exiles from their " Fatherland," 
Leaving their homes in Krieshiem's bowers of vine. 
And the blue beauty of their glorious Rhine, 
To seek amidst our solemn depths of wood 
Freedom from man and holy peace with God ; 
Who first of all their testimonial gave 
Against the oppressor, — for the outcast slave, — 
Is it a dieam that such as these look down, 
And with their blessing our rejoicings crown? 

Let us rejoice, that, while the pulpit's door 

Is barred against the pleaders for the poor ; 

While the church, wrangling upon points of faith. 

Forgets her bondmen suffering unto death ; 

While crafty traffic and the lust of gain 

Unite to forge oppression's triple chain, 

One door is open, and one Temple free — • 

As a resting place for hunted Liberty ! 

Where men may speak, unshackled and unawed, 

High words of truth, for Freedom and for God. 



And when that truth its perfect work hath done, 
And rich with blessings o'er our land hath gone ; 
When not a slave beneath his yoke shall pine, 
From broad Potomac to the far Sabine ; 



ADDRESS. 137 

When unto angel-lips at last is given 

The silver trump of Jubilee to Heaven ; 

And from Virginia's plains — Kentucky's shades, 

And through the dim Floridian everglades, 

Rises, to meet that angel-trumpet's sound, 

The voice of millions from their chains unbound — 

Then, though this Hall be crumbling in decay, 

Its strong walls blending with the common clay. 

Yet, round the ruins of its strength shall stand 

The best and noblest of a ransomed land — 

Pilgrims, like those who throng around the shrine 

Of Mecca, or of holy Palestine ! — 

A prouder glory shall that ruin own 

Than that which lingers round the Parthenon. 

Here shall the child of after years be taught 
The work of Freedom which his fathers wrought — 
Told of the trials of the present hour. 
Our weary strife with prejudice and power, — 
How the high errand quickened woman's soul, 
And touched her lip as with a living coal — 
How Freedom's martyrs kept their lofty faith. 
True and unwavering, unto bonds and death.— 
The pencil's art shall sketch the ruined Hall, 
The Muses' garland crown its aged wall. 
And History's pen for after times record 
Its consecration unto Freedom's God! 

1838. 



138 VOICES OF PRE ED OAT. 



THE MORAL WARFARE. 

When Freedom, on her natal day, 

Within her war-rocked cradle lay, 

An iron race around her stood, 

Baptized her infant brow in blood 

And, through the storm which round her swept, 

Their constant ward and watching kept. 

Then, where our quiet herds repose, 
The roar of baleful battle rose, 
And brethren of a common tongue 
To mortal strife as tigers sprung. 
And every gift on Freedom's shrine 
Was man for beast, and blood for wine! 

Our fathers to their graves have gone ; 
Their strife is past — their triumph won ; 
But sterner trials wait the race 
Which rises in their honored place — 
A moral warfare with the crime 
And folly of an evil time. 

So let it be. In God's own might 
We gird us for the coming fight. 
And, strong in Him whose cause is ours 
In conflict with unholy powers, 
We grasp the weapons He has given, — 
The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven ! 
1836. 



THE RESPONSE. 1 39 



THE RESPONSE. 

["To agitata the question (Slavery) anew, is not only im- 
politic, but it is a virtual breach of good faith to our brethren 
of the South; an unwarrantable interference with their domes- 
tic relations and institutions." " I can never, in the official 
station which I occupy, consent to countenance a course 
which may jeopard the peace and harmony of the Union," -^ 
Governor Porfsrs Inaugural Message, 1838] 

No '• countenance'' of his, forsooth! 

Who asked it at his v.issal hands? 
Who looked for homage done to Truth, 

By party's vile and hateful bands ? 
Who dreamed that one by them posser.sed, 
Would lay for her his spear in rest ? 

Ili^ " countenance" ! well, let it light 

The human robber to his spoil! — 
Let those who track the bondman's flight. 

Like bloodhounds o'er our once free soil, 
Bask in its sunsliine while they may. 
And howl its praises on their way ; 

Wo ask no boon : our rights we claim — 

Free pre ; ; a kI thought — free tongue and pen — 

The right to speak in Freedom's name, 
As Pennsylvanians and as men ; 

To do, by Lynch law unforbid, 

What our own Rush and Franklin did. 



I40 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 

Ay, there we stand, with planted feet, 

Steadfast, where those old worthies stood : — 

Upon us let the tempest beat, 

Around us swell and surge the flood : 

We fail or triumph on that spot ; 

God helping us, we falter not. 

" A breach of plighted faith ? '' For shame ! — 
Who voted for that " breach " ? Who gave 

In the state councils, vote and name 
For freedom for the District slave? 

Consistent patriot! go, forswear. 

Blot out, " expunge '' the record there ! ^ 

Go, eat thy words. Shall H[enry] C[lay] 

Turn round — a moral harlequin? 
And arch V[an] B[uren] wipe away 

The stains of his Missouri sin ? 
And shall that one unlucky vote 
Stick, burr-like, in thy honest throat? 

No — do thy part in '■^putting down " '^ 
The friends of Freedom : — summon out 

The parson in his saintly gown, 
To curse the outlawed roundabout. 

In concert with the BeHal brood — 

The Balaam of " the brotherhood '' ! 

1 It ought to be borne in mind that David R, Porter voted 
in the Legislature to instruct the congressional delegation of 
Pennsylvania to use their influence for the abolition of slavery 
in the District of Columbia. 

2 He [Martin Van Buren] thinks the abolitionists may be 
put down." — Richmond ( J 'a.) Enquirer. 



THE RESPONSE. 14] 

Quench every free discussion light — 

Clap on the legislative snuffers, 
And caulk with " resolutions " tight 

The ghastly rents the Union suffers! 
Let church and state brand Abolition 
As heresy and rank sedition. 

Choke down, at once, each breathing thing, 
That whispers of the Rights of Man : — 

Gag the free girl who dares to sing 
Of freedom o'er her dairy pan : — 

Dog the old farmer's steps about, 

And hunt his cherished treason out. 

Go, hunt sedition. — Search for that 

In every pedler's cart of rags ; 
Pry into every Quaker's hat, 

And Doctor Fussell's saddle bags! 
Lest treason wrap, with all its ills. 
Around his powders and his pills. 

Where Chester's oak and walnut shades 

With slavery-laden breezes stir. 
And on the hills, and in the glades 

Of Bucks and honest Lancaster, 
Are heads which think and hearts which feel — 
Flints to the Abohtion steel! 

Ho! send ye down a corporal's guard 
With flow of flag and beat of drum — 

Storm LiNDLEY Coates's poultry yard, 
Beleaguer Thomas Whitson's home ! 

Beat up the Quaker quarters — show 

Your valor to an unarmed foe ! 



142 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Do more. Fill up your loathsome jails 
With faithful men and women — set 

The scaffold up in these green vales, 
And let their verdant turf be wet 

With blood of unresisting men — 

Ay, do all this, and more, — what then ? 

Think ye, one heart of man and child 
Will falter from his lofty faith, 

At the mob's tumult, fierce and wild — 
The prison cell — the shameful death ? 

NtD ! — nursed in storm and trial long, 



The weakest of our band is strong 



Oh ! While before us visions come 
Of slave ships on Virginia's coast — 

Of mothers in their childless home. 
Like Rachel, sorrowing o'er the lost — 

The slave-gang scourged upon its way — 

The bloodhound and his human prey — 

We cannot falter! Did we so, 

The stones beneath would murmur out, 
And all the winds that round us blow 

Would whisper of our shame about. 
No! let the tempest rock the land. 
Our faith shall live — our truth shall stand. 

True as the Vaudois hemmed around 
With Papal fire and Roman steel — 

Firm as the Christian heroine bound 
Upon Domitian's torturing wheel. 

We 'bate no breath — we curb no thought ■ 

Come what may come, we falter not! 



THE WORLD'S CONVENTION. 1 43 



THE WORLD^S CONVENTION. 

Of the Friends of Emancipation, Held in London 

IN 1840. 

Yes, let them gather! — Summon forth 
The pledged philanthropy of Earth, 
From every land, whose hills have heard 

The bugle blast of Freedom waking ; 
Or shrieking of her symbol bird 

From out his cloudy eyrie breaking ; 
Where Justice hath one worshipper, 
Or Truth one altar built to her ; 
Where'er a human eye is weeping 

O'er wrongs which Earth's sad children know — 
Where'er a single heart is keeping 

Its prayerful watch with human woe : 
Thence let them come, and greet each other, 
And know in each, a friend and brother! 

Yes, let them come ! from each green vale 

Where England's old baronial halls 

Still bear upon their storied walls 
The grim crusader's rusted mail. 
Battered by Paynim spear and brand 
On Malta's rock or Syria's sand ! 
And mouldering pennon-staves once set 

Within the soil of Palestine, 
By Jordan and Gennesaret ; 

Or, borne with England's battle line, 



144 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

O'er Acre^'s shattered turrets stooping, 

Or, midst the camp their banners drooping, 

With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, 
A holier summons now is given 

Than that gray hermit's voice of old, 
Which unto all the winds of heaven 

The banners of the Cross unrolled! 
Not for the long deserted shrine, — 

Not for the dull unconscious sod. 
Which tells not by one lingering sigh 

That there the hope of Israel trod ; — 
But for that truth, for which alone 

In pilgrim eyes are sanctified 
The garden moss, the mountain stone. 
Whereon His holy sandals pressed — 
The fountain which His lip hath blessed — 
Whatever hath touched his garment's hem 
At Bethany or Bethlehem, 

Or Jordan's river side. 
For FREEDOM, in the name of Him 

Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor, 
To break the chain from every limb — 

The bolt from every prison door! 
For these, o'er all the Earth hath passed 
An ever-deepening trumpet blast, 
As if an angel's breath had lent 
Its vigor to the instrument. 

And Wales, from Snowden's mountain wall. 
Shall startle at that thrilling call, 

As if she heard her bards again ; 
And Erin's " harp on Tara's wall " 

Give out its ancient strain. 



THE WORLD'S CONVENTION. 1 45 

Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal — 

The melody which Erin loves, 
When o'er that harp, mid bursts of gladness 
And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness, 

The hand of her O'Connell moves : 
Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, 
And mountain hold, and heathery hill, 

Shall catch and echo back the note. 
As if she heard upon her air 
Once more her Cameronian's prayer 

And song of Freedom float. 
And cheering echoes shall reply 
From each remote dependency. 
Where Britain's mighty sway is known, 
In tropic sea or frozen zone ; 
Where'er her sunset flag is furling, 
Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling ; 
From Indian Bengal's groves of palm 
And rosy fields and gales of balm. 
Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled 
Through regal Ava's gates of gold ; 
And from the lakes and ancient woods 
And dim Canadian solitudes, 
Whence, sternly from her rocky throne. 
Queen of the North, Quebec looks down ; 
And from those bright and ransomed Isles 
Where all unwonted Freedom smiles 
And the dark laborer still retains 
The scar of slavery's broken chains! 

From the hoar Alps, which sentinel 
The gateways of the land of Tell, 
Where morninji's keen and earliest glance 



146 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

On Jura's rocky wall is thrown, 
And from the olive bovvers of France 

The vine groves garlanding the Rhone — 
" Friends of the Blacks," as true and tried 
As those who stood by Oge's side — 
Brissot and eloquent Grdgoire — 
When with free lip and heart of fire 
The Haytien told his country's wrong, 
Shall gather at that summons strong — 
Broglie, Passy, and him, whose song 
Breathed over Syria's holy sod, 
And in the paths which Jesus trod. 
And murmured midst the hills which hem 
Crownless and sad Jerusalem, 
Hath echoes wheresoe'er the tone 
Of Israel's prophet-lyre is known. 

Still let them come — from Quito's walls, 

And from the Orinoco's tide, 
From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, 
From Santa Fe and Yucatan, — 

Men who by swart Guerrero's side 
Proclaimed the deathless rights of man. 

Broke every bond and fetter off. 

And hailed in every sable serf 
A free and brother Mexican! 
Chiefs who crossed the Andes' chain 

Have followed Freedom's flowing pennon, 
And seen on Junin's fearful plain. 
Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain, 

The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon! 
And Hayti, from her mountain land, 



THE WORLD'S CONVENTION. 147 

Shall send the sons of those who hurled 
Defiance from her blazing strand — 
The war-gage from her Petion's hand, 

Alone against a hostile world. 

Nor all unmindful, thou, the while, 
Land of the dark and mystic Nile ! — 

Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame 

All tyrants of a Christian name — 
When in the shade of Gezeh's pile, 
Or, where from Abyssinian hills 
El Gerek's upper fountain fills. 
Or where from mountains of the Moon 
El Abiad bears his watery boon, 
Where'er thy lotos blossoms swim 

Within their ancient hallowed waters — 
Where'er is heard thy prophet's hymn, 

Or song of Nubia's sable daughters, 
The curse of slavery and the crime, 
Thy bequest from remotest time. 
At thy dark Mehemet's decree 
For evermore shall pass from thee ; 

And chains forsake each captive's limb 
Of all those tribes, whose hills around 
Have echoed back the cymbal sound 

And victor horn of Ibrahim. 

And thou whose glory and whose crime 
To earth's remotest bound and clime. 
In mingled tones of awe and scorn, 
The echoes of a world have borne. 
My country! glorious at thy birth. 



148 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

A day-star flashing brightly forth, — 

The herald-sign of Freedom's dawn! 
Oh! who could dream that saw thee then, 

And watched thy rising from afar. 
That vapors from oppression's fen 

Would cloud the upward-tending star? 
Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard, 

Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning, 
Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king, 
To mock thee with their welcoming, 
Like Hades when her thrones were stirred 

To greet the down-cast Star of Morning! 
"Aha! and art thou fallen thus? 
Art THOU become as one of Jts ? " 

Land of my fathers! — there will stand, 
Amidst that world-assembled band. 
Those owning thy maternal claim 
Unweakened by thy crime and shame, — 
The sad reprovers of thy wrong — 
The children thou hast spurned so long. 
Still with affection's fondest yearning 
To their unnatural mother turning. 
No traitors they! — but tried and leal, 
Whose own is but thy general weal, 
Still blending with the patriot's zeal 
The Christian's love for human kind, 
To caste and climate unconfined. 

A holy gathering ! — peaceful all — 
No threat of war — no savage call 
For vengeance on an erring brother; 



THE WORLD'S CONVENTION. 

But in their stead the God-Hke plan 
To teach the brotherhood of man 

To love and reverence one another, 
As sharers of a common blood — 
The children of a common God! — 
Yet, even at its lightest word, 
Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred : 
Spain watching from her Moro's keep 
Her slave-ships traversing the deep, 
And Rio, in her strength and pride. 
Lifting, along her mountain side, 
Her snowy battlements and towers — 
Her lemon groves and tropic bowers. 
With bitter hate and sullen fear 
Its freedom-giving voice shall hear ; 
And where my country's flag is flowing. 
On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing 

Above the Nation's council-halls. 
Where Freedom's praise is loud and long, 

While, close beneath the outward walls, 
The driver plies his reeking thong — 

The hammer of the man-thief falls, 
O'er hypocritic cheek and brow 
The crimson flush of shame shall glow : 
And all who for their native land 
Are pledging life and heart and hand — 
Worn watchers o'er her changing weal. 
Who for her tarnished honor feel — 
Through cottage-door and council-hall 
Shall thunder an awakening call. 
The pen along its page shall burn 
With all intolerable scorn — 



49 



50 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

And eloquent rebuke shall go 
On all the winds that Southward blow; 
From priestly lips now sealed and dumb. 
Warning and dread appeal shall come, 
Like those which Israel heard from him, 
The Prophet of the Cherubim — 
Or those which sad Esaias hurled 
Against a sin-accursed world ! 
Its wizard-leaves the Press shall fling- 
Unceasing from its iron wing, 
With characters inscribed thereon, 

As fearful in the despot's hall 
As to the pomp of Babylon 

The fire-sign on the palace wall! 
And, from her dark iniquities, 
Methinks I see my country rise : 
Not challenging the nations round 

To note her tardy justice done — 
Her captives from their chains unbound, 

Her prisons opening to the sun ; — 
But tearfully her arms extending 
Over the poor and unoffending ; 

Her regal emblem now no longer 
A bird of prey, with talons reeking, 
Above the dying captive shrieking, 
But, spreading out her ample wing — 
A broad, impartial covering — 

The weaker sheltered by the stronger! - 
. Oh ! then to Faith's anointed eyes 

The promised token shall be given ; 
And on a nation's sacrifice, 

Atoning for the sin of years, 



NEW HAMPSHIRE. — 184^. 151 

And wet with penitential tears — 
The fire shall fall from Heaven! 



1839. 



NEW HAMPSHIRE. — 1845. 



God bless New Hampshire! — from her granite 

peaks 
Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks. 
The long-bound vassal of the exulting South 

For very shame her self-forged chain has bro- 
ken — 
Torn the black seal of slavery from her mouth, 

And in the clear tones of her old time spoken I 
Oh, all undreamed of, all unhoped-for changes! — 

The tyrant's ally proves his sternest foe ; 
To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges, 

New Hampshire thunders an indignant No! 
Who is it now despairs? Oh, faint of heart, 

Look upward to those Northern mountains cold, 

Flouted by Freedom's victor-flag unrolled, 
And gather strength to bear a manlier part ! 
All is not lost. The angel of God's blessing 

Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight ; 
Still to her banner, day by day, are pressing, 

Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right! 
Courage, then, Northern hearts ! — Be firm, be true : 
What one brave State hath done, can ye not also 
do.? 

1845. 



52 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 



THE NEW YEAR: 

Addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania 
Freeman. 

The wave is breaking on the shore — 
The echo fading from the chime — 

Again the shadow moveth o''er 
The dial-plate of time! 

Oh, seer-seen Angel ! waiting now 
With weary feet on sea and shore, 

Impatient for the last dread vow 
That time shall be no more ! — 

Once more across thy sleepless eye 
The semblance of a smile has passed ; 

The year departing leaves more nigh 
Time's fearfullest and last. 

Oh ! in that dying year hath been 
The sum of all since time began — 

The birth and death, the joy and pain, 
Of Nature and of Man. 

Spring, with her change of sun and shower. 
And streams released from Winter's chain, 

And bursting bud, and opening flower. 
And greenly-growing grain ; 



THE NEW YEAR. 153 

And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm, 
And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed, 

And voices in her rising storm — 
God speaking from his cloud! — 

And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves. 
And soft, warm days of golden light, 

The glory of her forest leaves. 
And harvest-moon at night ; 

And Winter with her leafless grove, 

And prisoned stream, and drifting snow, 

The brilliance of her heaven above 
And of her earth below : — 

And man — in whom an angel's mind 
With earth's low instincts finds abode — ■ 

The highest of the links which bind 
Brute nature to her God ; 

His infant eye hath seen the light. 

His childhood's merriest laughter rung, 

And active sports to manlier might 
The nerves of boyhood stnmg! 

And quiet love, and passion's fires, 

Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast, 
And lofty aims and low desires 

By turns disturbed his rest. 

The wailing of the newly-born 

Has mingled with the funeral knell : 



154 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 

And o'er the dying's ear has gone 
The merry marriage-bell. 

And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, 
While Want, in many a humble shed, 

Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, 
The live-long night for bread. 

And worse than all — the human slave — 
The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! 

Plucked off the crown his Maker gave — 
His regal manhood gone ! 

Oh ! still my country ! o'er thy plains. 
Blackened with slavery's blight and ban, 

That human chattel drags his chains — 
An uncreated man ! 

And still, where'er to sun and breeze, 
My country, is thy flag unrolled. 

With scorn, the gazing stranger sees 
A stain on every fold. 

Oh, tear the gorgeous emblem down! 

It gathers scorn from every eye. 
And despots smile, and good men frown, 

Whene'er it passes by. 

Shame! shame! its starry splendors glow 
Above the slaver's loathsome jail — 

Its folds are ruffling even now 
His crimson flag of sale. 



THE NEW YEAR. 1 55 

Still round our country's proudest hall 
The trade in human flesh is driven, 

And at each careless hammer-fall 
A human heart is riven. 

And this, too, sanctioned by the men. 
Vested with power to shield the right, 

And throw each vile and robber den 
Wide open to the light. 

Yet shame upon them! — there they sit, 
Men of the North, subdued and still; 

Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit 
To work a master's will. 

Sold — bargained off for Southern votes — 
A passive herd of Northern mules. 

Just braying through their purchased throats 
Whatever their owner rules. 

And he ^ — the basest of the base — 
The vilest of the vile — whose name, 

Embalmed in infinite disgrace, 
Is deathless in its shame! — 

A tool — to bolt the people's door 

Against the people clamoring there, — 

An ass — to trample on their floor 
A people's right of prayer ! 

1 The Northern author of the Congressional rule against 
receiving petitions of the people on the subject of Slavery. 



56 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, 
Self-pilloried to the public view — 

A mark for every passing blast 
Of scorn to whistle through ; 

There let him hang, and hear the boast 
Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool — 

A St. Stylites on his post, 
" Sacred to ridicule ! " 

Look we at home ! — our noble hall, 
To Freedom's holy purpose given, 

Now rears its black and ruined wall. 
Beneath the wintry heaven — 

Telling the story of its doom — 

The fiendish mob — the prostrate lavv' — ■ 

The fiery jet through midnight's gloom, 
Our gazing thousands saw. 

Look to our State — the poor man's right 
Torn from him : — and the sons of those 

Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight 
Sprinkled the Jersey snows, 

Outlawed within the land of Penn, 

That Slavery's guilty fears might cease, 

And those whom God created men. 
Toil on as brutes in peace. 

Yet o'er the blackness of the storm, 
A bow of promise bends on high, 



THE NEW YEAR. 157 

And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm, 
Break through our clouded sky. 

East, West, and North, the shout is heard, 

Of freemen rising for the right : 
Each valle}^ hath its rallying word — 

Each hill its signal light. 

O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray. 

The strengthening light of freedom shines, 

Rhode Island's Narragansett Bay — 
And Vermont's snow-hung pines ! 

From Hudson's frowning palisades 

To Alleghany's laurelled crest, 
O'er lakes and prairies, streams and glades, 

It shines upon the West. 

Speed on the light to those who dwell 

In Slavery's land of woe and sin, 
And through the blackness of that hell, 

Let Heaven's own light break in. 

So shall the Southern conscience quake, 
Before that light poured full and strong. 

So shall the Southern heart awake 
To all the bondman's wrong. 

And from that rich and sunny land 

The song of grateful millions rise, 
Like that of Israel's ransomed band 

Beneath Arabia's skies : 



158 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 



And all who now are bound beneath 
Our banner's shade — our eagle's wing. 

From Slavery's night of moral death 
To light and life shall spring. 



Broken the bondman's chain — and gone 
The master's guilt, and hate, and fear, 

And unto both alike shall dawn, 
A New and Happy Year. 
[839. 



MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 

[Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the 
citizens of Norfolk, Va., in reference to GEORGE LATIMER, 
the alleged fugitive slave, the result of whose case in Massa- 
chusetts v^^ill probably be similar to that of the negro SOMER- 
SET in England, in 1772.] 

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its 

Southern way, 
Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts 

Bay: — 
No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's 

peal, 
Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of 

horsemen's steel. 

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our high- 
ways go — 
Around our silent arsenals untrodden Hes the snow : 



MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 159 

And to the land breeze of our ports, upon their 

errands far, 
A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are 

spread for war. 

We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy stormy words 

and high, 
Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt 

along our sky ; 
Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest 

labor here — 
No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in 

fear. 

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. 

George's bank — 
Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and 

dank; 
Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout 

are the hearts which man 
The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of 

Cape Ann. 

The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their 

icy forms, 
Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling 

with the storms ; 
Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the 

waves they roam. 
They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their 

rocky home. 



l60 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

What means the Old Dominion? Hath she forgot 
the day 

When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's 
steel array? 

How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachu- 
setts men 

Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout 
Cornwallis, then? 

Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the 

call 
Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from 

Faneuil Hall? 
When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing 

on each breath 
Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of " Liberty 

OR Death!" 

What asks the Old Dominion? If now her sons 

have proved 
False t'o their fathers' memory — false to the faith 

they loved ; 
If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter 

spurn. 
Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty 

turn ? 

We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hate- 
ful hell— 

Our voices, at your bidding, take up the blood- 
hound's veil — 



MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. i6l 

We gather, at your summons, above our fathers' 

graves, 
From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your 

wretched slaves! 



Thank God! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts 

bow ; 
The spirit of her early time is with her even nov/ ; 
Dream not because her Pilgrim blood moves slow, 

and calm, and cool, 
She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's 

slave and tool! 



All that a sister State should do, all that 2^ free State 

may, 
Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early 

day; 
But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger 

with alone, 
And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves 

have sown! 



Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and 
burden God's free air 

With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and man- 
hood's wild despair ; 

Cling closer to the " cleaving curse " that writes upon 
your plains 

The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of 
chains. 



1 62 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of 

old, 
By watching round the shambles where human 

flesh is sold — 
Gloat o^er the new-born child, and count his market 

value, when 
The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the 

slaver's den! 

Lower than plummet soundeth, sink the Virginian 

name ; 
Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest 

weeds of shame ; 
Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe — • 
We wash our hands forever, of your sin, and shame, 

and curse. 

A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's 

shrine had been. 
Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's 

mountain men : 
The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering 

still 
In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. 

And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for 

his prey 
Beneath the very shadow of Bunker's shaft of gray. 
How, through the free lips of the son, the father's 

warning spoke ; 
How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim 

city broke ! 



MASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 163 

A hundred thousand right arms were lifted up on 

high,— 
A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud 

reply ; 
Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling 

summons rang, 
And up from bench and loom and wheel her young 

mechanics sprang! 

The voice of free, broad Middlesex — of thousands 

as of one — 
The shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexington — 
From Norfolk's ancient villages ; from Plymouth's 

rocky bound 
To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close 

her round ; — 

From rich and rural Worcester, where through the 

calm repose 
Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle 

Nashua flows, 
To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain 

larches stir, 
Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of '" God save 

Latimer! " 



And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt 

sea spray — 
And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narra- 

gansett Bav! 



164 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the 

thrill, 
And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down 

from Holyoke Hill. 

The voice of Massachusetts! Of her free sons and 

daughters — 
Deep calling unto deep aloud — the sound of many 

waters ! 
Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power 

shall stand? 
No fetters in the Bay State I No slave iipon her 

land I 

Look to it well, Virginians! In calmness we have 

borne, 
In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and 

your scorn ; 
YouVe spurned our kindest counsels — you've hunted 

for our lives — 
And shaken round our hearths and homes your 

manacles and gyves! 

We wage no war — we lift no arm — we fling no 

torch within 
The fire-damps of the quaking mine beneath your 

soil of sin ; 
We leave ye with your bondmen, to wrestle, while 

ye can. 
With the strong upward tendencies and God-like 

soul of man! 



THE RELIC. 165 

But for us and for our children, the vow which we 

have given 
For freedom and humanity, is registered in Heaven ; 
No slave-hunt in our borders ■ — no pirate on our 

strand I 
No fetters in the Bay State — no slave upon our land I 

1843. 



THE RELIC. 

[Pennsylvania Hall, dedicated to Free Discussion and 
the cause of Human Liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1838. 
The following was written on receiving a cane wrought from 
a fragment of the wood-work which the fire had spared.] 

Token of friendship true and tried, 
From one whose fiery heart of youth 

With mine has beaten, side by side, 
For Liberty and Truth ; 

With honest pride the gift I take, 

And prize it for the giver's sake. 

But not alone because it tells 

Of generous hand and heart sincere ; 

Around that gift of friendship dwells 
A memory doubly dear — 

Earth's noblest aim — man's holiest thought. 

With that memorial frail inwrought! 

Pure thoughts and sweet, like flowers unfold, 
And precious memories round it cling, 



1 66 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Even as the Prophet's rod of old 

In beauty blossoming : 
And buds of feeling pure and good 
Spring from its cold unconscious wood. 

Relic of Freedom^'s shrine ! — a brand 
Plucked from its burning ! — let it be 

Dear as a jewel from the hand 
Of a lost friend to me! — 

Flower of a perished garland left, 

Of life and beauty unbereft! 

Oh ! if the young enthusiast bears, 
O'er weary waste and sea, the stone 

Which crumbled from the Forum's stairs, 
Or round the Parthenon ; 

Or olive bough from some wild tree 

Hung over old Thermopylae : 



Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary, - 
Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom 

On fields renowned in story, — 
Or fragment from the Alhambra's crest, 
Or the gray rock by druids blessed ; 

Sad Erin's shamrock greenly growing 
Where Freedom led her stalwart kern. 

Or Scotia's " rough burr thistle " blowing 
On Bruce's Bannockburn — 

Or Runnymede's wild English rose. 

Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows!- 



THE RELIC. 167 

If it be true that things like these 

To heart and eye bright visions bring, 

Shall not far holier memories 
To this memorial cling? 

Which needs no mellowing mist of time 

To hide the crimson stains of crime ! 

Wreck of a temple, unprofaned — 

Of courts where Peace and Freedom trod, 

Lifting on high, with hands unstained, 
Thanksgiving unto God ; 

Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading 

For human hearts in bondage bleeding! — ■ 

Where midst the sound of rushing feet 

And curses on the night air flung, 
That pleading voice rose calm and sweet 

From woman's earnest tongue ; 
And Riot turned his scowling glance, 
Awed, from her tranquil countenance! 

That temple now in ruin lies ! — 
The fire-stain on its shattered wall, 

And open to the changing skies 
Its black and roofless hall, 

It stands before a nation's sight, 

A grave-stone over buried Right! 

But from that ruin, as of old. 

The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying, 
And from their ashes white and cold 

Its timbers are replying! 



1 68 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

A voice which slavery cannot kill 
Speaks from the crumbling arches still! 

And even this relic from thy shrine, 
Oh^ holy Freedom ! — hath to me 

A potent power, a voice and sign 
To testify of thee ; 

And, gi"asping it, methinks I feel 

A deeper faith, a stronger zeal. 

And not unlike that mystic rod, 
Of old stretched o'er the Egyptian wave, 

Which opened, in the strength of God, 
A pathway for the slave, 

It yet may point the bondman's way. 

And turn the spoiler from his prey. 

1839. 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. — 1844. 

[Written on reading the sentence of JOHN L. Brown, of 
South Carolina, to be executed on the 25th of 4th montli, 1844, 
for the crime of assisting a female slave to escape from bond- 
age. The sentence was afterwards commuted.] 

Ho! thou who seekest late and long 

A license from the Holy Book 
For brutal lust and hell's red wrong, 

Man of the pulpit, look ! — 
Lift up those cold and atheist eyes. 

This ripe fruit of thy teaching see ; 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.— ■ 1844. 169 

And tell us how to Heaven will rise 
The incense of this sacrifice — 

This blossom of the Gallows Tree ! — 

Search out for Slavery's hour of need 

Some fitting text of sacred writ ; ^ 
Give Heaven the credit of a deed 

Which shames the nether pit. 
Kneel, smooth blasphemer, unto Him 

Whose truth is on thy lips a lie. 
Ask that His bright-winged cherubim 
May bend around that scaffold grim 

To guard and bless and sanctify ! — 

Ho ! champion of the people^'s cause — 

Suspend thy loud and vain rebuke 
Of foreign wrong and Old World laws, 

Man of the Senate, look! — 
Was this the promise of the free, — 

The great hope of our early time, — 
That Slavery's poison vine should be 
Upborne by Freedom's prayer-nursed tree, 

O'erclustered with such fruits of crime ? — 

Send out the summons, East and West, 
And South and North, let all be there, 

Where he who pitied the oppressed 
Swings out in sun and air. 

1 Three new publications, from the pens of Dr. Junkin, 
President of Miami College, Alexander McCaine of the Meth- 
odist Protestant church, and of a clergyman of the Cincinnati 
Synod, defending Slavery on Scriptural ground, have recently 
made their appearance. 



I/O VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Let not a democratic hand 

The grisly hangman's task refuse ; 

There let each loyal patriot stand 

Awaiting Slavery's command 

To twist the rope and draw the noose! 

But vain is irony — unmeet 

Its cold rebuke for deeds which start 
In fiery and indignant beat 

The pulses of the heart. 
Leave studied wit, and guarded phrase ; 

And all that kindled heart can feel 
Speak out in earnest words which raise, 
Where'er they fall, an answering blaze, 

Like flints which strike the fire from steel. 

Still let a mousing priesthood ply 

Their garbled text and gloss of sin, 
And make the lettered scroll deny 

Its living soul within ; 
Still let the place-fed titled knave 

Plead Robbery's right with purchased lips. 
And tell us that our fathers gave 
For Freedom's pedestal, a slave, 

For frieze and moulding, chains and whips ! 

But ye who own that higher law 
Whose tables in the heart are set, 

Speak out in words of power and awe 
That God is living yet ! 

Breathe forth once more those tones sublime 
Which thrilled the burdened prophet's lyre, 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. — 1844. I 71 

And in a dark and evil time 
Smote down on IsraePs fast of crime 
And gift of blood, a rain of fire! 

Oh, not for us the graceful lay, 

To whose soft measures lightly move 
The Dryad and the woodland Fay, 

Overlooked by Mirth and Love ; 
But such a stern and startling strain 

As Britain's hunted bards flung down 
From Snowden, to the conquered plain. 
Where harshly clanked the Saxon chain 

On trampled field and smoking town. 

By Liberty's dishonored name, 

By man's lost hope, and failing trust, 
By words and deeds, which bow with shame 

Our foreheads to the dust, — 
By the exulting tyrant's sneer, 

Borne to us from the Old World's thrones, 
And by their grief, who pining hear, 
In sunless mines and dungeons drear, 

How Freedom's land her faith disowns ; — 

Speak out in acts ; the time for words 
Has passed, and deeds alone suffice ; 

In the loud clang of meeting swords 
The softer music dies ! 

Act — act, in God's name, while ye may. 
Smite from the church her leprous limb, 

Throw open to the light of day 



172 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 

The bondman's cell, and break away 
The chains the state has bound on him. 



Ho! every true and living soul, 

To Freedom's perilled altar bear 
The freeman's and the Christian's whole, 

Tongue, pen, and vote, and prayer! 
One last great battle for the Right, — 

One short, sharp struggle to be free! 
To do is to succeed — our fight 
Is waged in Heaven's approving sight — 

The smile of God is Victory! 

1844. 



THE BRANDED HAND. 

[Captain Jonathan Walker, of Harwich, Mass., was 
solicited by several fugitive slaves at Pensacola, Florida, to 
convey them in his vessel to the British West Indies. Al- 
though well aware of the hazard of the enterprise, he attempted 
to comply with their request. He was seized by an American 
vessel, consigned to the American authorities at Key West, 
and by them taken back to Florida — where, after a long and 
rigorous imprisonment he was brought to trial. He was 
sentenced to be branded on the right hand with the letters 
" S. S." ( " Slave Stealer ") and amerced in a heavy fine. He 
was released on the payment of his fine in the 6th month of 
1845-] 

Welcome home again, brave seaman! with thy 

thoughtful brow and gray, 
And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day — 



THE BRANDED HAND. 173 

With that front of cahii endurance, on whose steady 

nerve, in vain 
Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fiery shafts 

of pain ! 

Is the tyrant's brand upon thee? Did the brutal 

cravens aim 
To make God's truth thy falsehood, His holiest work 

thy shame ? 
When, all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron 

was withdrawn, 
How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to 

scorn ! 



They change to wrong, the duty which God hath 

written out 
On the great heart of humanity too legible for 

doubt ! 
They, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from 

footsole up to crown. 
Give to shame what God hath given unto honor and 

renown ! 

Why, that brand is highest honor! — than its traces 

never yet 
Upon old armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon 

set ; 
And thy unborn generations, as they tread our rocky 

strand. 
Shall tell with pride the story of their father's 

BRANDED HAND ! 



1/4 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

As the Templar home was welcomed, bearing back 

from Syrian wars 
The scars of Arab lances, and of Paynim scimitars. 
The pallor of the prison and the shackle's crimson 

span, 
So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of 

God and man! 

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's 

grave, 
Thou for His living presence in the bound and 

bleeding slave ; 
He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, 
Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of God! 

For, while the jurist sitting with the slave-whip o'er 
him swung. 

From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery 
wrung, 

And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God- 
deserted shrine. 

Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the 
bondman's blood for wine — 

While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour 

knelt, 
And spurned, the while, the temple where a present 

Saviour dwelt ; 
Thou beheld'st Him in the task-field, in the prison 

shadows dim. 
And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto 

Him! 



THE BRANDED HAND. 175 

In the lone and long night watches, sky above and 

wave below, 
Thou did'st learn a higher wisdom than the babbling 

school-men know ; 
God's stars and silence taught thee, as His angels 

only can, 
That the one, sole sacred thing beneath the cope of 

heaven is Man! 

That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law 

and creed. 
In the depth of God's great goodness may find mercy 

in his need ; 
But woe to him who crushes the soul with chain 

and rod, 
And herds with lower natures the awful form of 

God! 

Then lift thy manly right hand, bold ploughman of 

the wave! 
Its branded palm shall prophesy, '• Salvation to 

THE Slave!" 
Hold up its fire-wrought language, that whoso reads 

may feel 
His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change 

to steel. 



Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our North- 
ern air — 

Ho! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God look 
there ! 



1^6 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Take it henceforth for your standard — Hke the 

Bruce's heart of yore, 
In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand be 

seen before ! 



And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at 
that sign, 

When it points its finger Southward along the Puri- 
tan line : 

Woe to the State-gorged leeches, and the Church's 
locust band, 

When they look from slavery's ramparts on the com- 



ing of that hand ! 



1846. 



TEXAS. 

Voice of New England. 

Up the hill-side, down the glen, 
Rouse the sleeping citizen ; 
Summon out the might of men! 

Like a lion growling low — 
Like a night-storm rising slow — 
Like the tread of unseen foe — 

It is coming — it is nigh ! 
Stand your homes and altars by ; 
On your own free thresholds die! 



TEXAS. 177 

Clang the bells in all your spires ; 
On the gray hills of your sires 
Fling to heaven your signal fires ! 

From Wachuset, lone and bleak, 

Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, 

Let the flame-tongued heralds speak! 

O ! for God and duty stand. 
Heart to heart and hand to hand, 
Round the old graves of the land! 

Whoso shrinks or falters now. 
Whoso to the yoke would bow, 
Brand the craven on his brow! 

Freedom's soil hath only place 
For a free and fearless race — 
None for traitors false and base. 

Perish party — perish clan ; 
Strike together while ye can. 
Like the arm of one strong man ! 

Like that angel's voice sublime, 
Heard above a world of crime. 
Crying of the end of time — 

With one heart and with one mouth. 
Let the North unto the South 
Speak the word befitting both : 



178 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

"What though Issachar be strong! 
Ye may load his back with wrong 
Overmuch and over long : 

" Patience with her cup overrun, 
With her weary thread outspun, 
Murmurs that her work is done. 

" Make our Union-bond a chain, 
Weak as tow in Freedom's strain 
Link by link shall snap in twain. 

" Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope 
Bind the starry cluster up, 
Shattered over heaven's blue cope! 

" Give us bright though broken rays, 
Rather than eternal haze, 
Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze ! 

" Take your land of sun and bloom ; 
Only leave to Freedom room 
For her plough, and forge, and loom ; 

''' Take your slavery-blackened vales ; 
Leave us but our own free gales. 
Blowing on our thousand sails ! 

" Boldly, or with treacherous art. 
Strike the blood-wrought chain apart 
Break the Union's mighty heart ; 



TEXAS. 1 79 

" Work the ruin, if ye will ; 
Pluck upon your heads an ill 
Which shall grow and deepen still! 

" With your bondman's right arm barC;, 
With his heart of black despair, 
Stand alone, if stand ye dare! 

" Onward with your fell design ; 
Dig the gulf and draw the line : 
Fire beneath your feet the mine : 

" Deeply, when the wide abyss 
Yawns between your land and this, 
Shall ye feel your helplessness. 

" By the hearth, and in the bed, 
Shaken by a look or tread, 
Ye shall own a guilty dread. 

" And the curse of unpaid toil. 
Downward through your generous soil 
Like a fire shall burn and spoil. 

" Our bleak hills shall bud and blow. 
Vines our rocks shall overgrow, 
Plenty in our valleys flow ; — 

" And when vengeance clouds your skies. 
Hither shall ye turn your eyes. 
As the lost on Paradise.' 



l8o VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

''^ We but ask our rocky strand, 
Freedom^'s true and brother band, 
FreedonVs strong and honest hand, 

" Valleys by the slave untrod, 
And the Pilgrim's mountain sod. 
Blessed of our fathers' God! " 

1844. 



TO FANEUIL HALL. 

[Wntten in 1844, on reading a call by " a Massachusetts 
Freeman" for a meeting in Faneuil Hall of the citizens of 
Massachusetts, without distinction of party, opposed to the 
annexation of Texas, and the aggressions of South Carolina, 
and in favor of decisive action against Slavery.] 

Men! — if manhood still ye claim, 

If the Northern pulse can thrill, 
Roused by wrong or stung by shame, 

Freely, strongly still : — 
Let the sounds of traffic die : 

Shut the mill-gate — leave the stall — 
Fling the axe and hammer by — 

Throng to Faneuil Hall ! 

Wrongs which freemen never brooked — 
Dangers grim and fierce as they, 

Which, like couching lions, looked 
On your fathers' way ; — 



TO FANEUIL HALL. l8l 

These your instant zeal demand, 
Shaking with their earthquake-call 

Every rood of Pilgrim land — 
Ho, to Faneuil Hall ! 

From your capes and sandy bars — 

From your mountain-ridges cold, 
Through whose pines the westering stars 

Stoop their crowns of gold — 
Come, and with your footsteps wake 

Echoes from that holy wall : 
Once again, for Freedom's sake, 

Rock your fathers^ hall ! 

Up, and tread beneath your feet 

Every cord by party spun ; 
Let your hearts together beat 

As the heart of one. 
Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade, 

Let them rise or let them fall : 
Freedom asks your common aid — 

Up, to Faneuil Hall ! 

Up. and let each voice that speaks 

Ring from thence to Southern plains, 
Sharply as the blow which breaks 

Prison-bolts and chains! 
Speak as well becomes the free — 

Dreaded more than steel or ball, 
Shall your calmest utterance be. 

Heard from Faneuil Hall! 



1 82 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Have they wronged us? Let us then 

Render back nor threats nor prayers ; 
Have they chained our free-born men? 

Let us unchain theirs! 
Up! your banner leads the van, 

Blazoned " Liberty for all! " 
Finish what your sires began — 

Up, to Faneuil Hall! 

1844. 

TO MASSACHUSETTS. 

Written during the Pending of the Texas 
Question. 

What though around thee blazes 

No fiery rallying sign ? 
From all thy own high places, 

Give heaven the light of thine! 
What though unthrilled, unmoving, 

The statesman stands apart, 
And comes no warm approving 

From Mammon's crowded mart? 

Still let the land be shaken 

By a summons of thine own! 
By all save truth forsaken, 

Why, stand with that alone! 
Shrink not from strife unequal! 

With the best is always hope ; 
And ever in the sequel 

God holds the right side up! 



TO MASSACHUSETTS. 183 

But when, with thine uniting, 

Come voices long and loud, 
And far-off hills are writing 

Thy fire-words on the cloud : 
When from Penobscot's fountains 

A deep response is heard, 
And across the Western mountains 

Rolls back thy rallying word ; 

Shall thy line of battle falter, 

With its allies just in view ? 
Oh, by hearth and holy altar, 

My Fatherland, be true! 
Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom! 

Speed them onward far and fast! 
Over hill and valley speed them. 

Like the SibyPs on the blast ! 

Lo! the Empire State is shaking 

The shackles from her hand ; 
With the rugged North is waking 

The level sunset land! 
On they come — the free battalions! 

East and West and North they 
And the heart-beat of the millions 

Is the beat of Freedom's drum. 

"To the tyrant's plot no favor! 

No heed to place-fed knaves! 
Bar and bolt the door forever 

Against the land of Slaves!" 



1 84 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it. 

The Heavens above us spread! 
The land is roused — its spirit 

Was sleeping, but not dead! 

1844- 



THE PINE TREE. 

Written on hearing that the Anti-Slavery Resolves of 
Stephen C. Phillips had been rejected by the Whig Con- 
vention in Faneuil Hall, in 1846. 

Lift again the stately emblem on the Bay State's 
rusted shield. 

Give to Northern winds the Pine Tree on our ban- 
ner's tattered field, 

Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles 
round the board. 

Answering England's royal missive with a firm, 
"Thus saith the Lord!" 

Rise again for home and freedom! — set the battle 
in array ! — 

What the fathers did of old time we their sons 
must do to-day. 

Tell us not of banks and tariifs — cease your paltry 
pedler cries — 

Shall the good State sink her honor that your gam- 
bling stocks may rise? 

Would ye barter man for cotton ? — That your gains 
may be the same. 



THE PINE TREE. 1 85 

Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children 
through the flame? 

Is the dollar only real? — God and truth and right 
a dream ? 

Weighed against your lying ledgers must our man- 
hood kick the beam? 

Oh, my God! — for that free spirit, which of old in 

Boston town 
Smote the Province House with terror, struck the 

crest of Andros down ! — 
For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets 

to cry : 
Up for God and Massachusetts! — Set your feet on 

Mammon's lie! 
Perish banks and perish traffic — spin your cotton's 

latest pound — 
But in Heaven's name keep your honor — keep the 

heart o' the Bay State sound!" 

Where's the man for Massachusetts? — Where's the 

voice to speak her free ? — 
Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her 

mountains to the sea? 
Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer? — Sits she dumb 

in her despair? — 
Has she none to break the silence? — Has she none 

to do and dare ? 
Oh my God! for one right worthy to lift up her 

rusted shield, 
And to plant again the Pine Tree in her banner's 

tattered field! 

1846. 



1 86 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 



LINES 

Suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington 
IN THE I2TH Month of 1845. 

With a cold and wintry noon-light, 

On its roofs and steeples shed, 
Shadows weaving with the sun-light 
From the gray sky overhead. 
Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built 
town outspread. 

Through this broad street, restless ever, 

Ebbs and flows a human tide. 
Wave on wave a living river ; 

Wealth and fashion side by side ; 
Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick 
current glide. 

Underneath yon dome, whose coping 
Springs above them, vast and tall. 
Grave men in the dust are groping 
For the largess, base and small. 
Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs 
which from its table fall. 

Base of heart! They vilely barter 
Honoris wealth for party's place : 
Step by step on Freedom's charter 
Leaving footprints of disgrace ; 
For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great 
hope of their race. 



LINES. 187 

Yet, where festal lamps are throwing 

Glory round the dancer's hair, 
Gold-tressed, like an angel's flowing 
Backward on the sunset air ; 
And the low quick pulse of music beats its measures 
sweet and rare : 

There to-night shall woman's glances, 

Star-like, welcome give to them. 
Fawning fools with shy advances 
Seek to touch their garments' hem, 
With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God 
and Truth condemn. 

From this glittering lie my vision 
Takes a broader, sadder range, 
Full before me have arisen 

Other pictures dark and strange ; 
From the parlor to the prison must the scene and 
witness change. 

Hark! the heavy gate is swinging 
On its hinges, harsh and slow ; 
One pale prison lamp is flinging 
On a fearful group below 
Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does 
not show. 

Pitying God! — Is that a avoman 
On whose wrist the shackles clash? 

Is that shriek she utters human. 
Underneath the stinging lash? 



1 88 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Are they men whose eyes of madness from that sad 
procession flash? 

Still the dance goes gayly onward! 
What is it to Wealth and Pride, 
That without the stars are looking 
On a scene which earth should hide ? 
That the slave-ship lies in waiting, rocking on 
Potomac's tide! 

Vainly to that mean Ambition 

Which, upon a rivaPs fall, 
Winds above its old condition. 
With a reptile's slimy crawl, 
Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in 
anguish call. 

Vainly to the child of Fashion, 

Giving to ideal woe 
Graceful luxury of compassion, 
Shall the stricken mourner go ; 
Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the hol- 
low show ! 

Nay, my words are all too sweeping : 

In this crowded human mart 
Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ; 
Man's strong will and woman's heart, 
In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their 
generous part. 

And from yonder sunny valleys. 
Southward in the distance lost, 



LINES. 189 

Freedom yet shall summon allies 
Worthier than the North can boast, 
With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at 
severer cost. 

Now, the soul alone is willing : 

Faint the heart and weak the knee ; 
And as yet no lip is thrilling 
With the mighty words " Be Free!" 
Tarrieth long the land's Good Angel, but his advent 
is to be! 

Meanwhile, turning from the revel 

To the prison-cell my sight, 
For intenser hate of evil. 
For a keener sense of right, 
Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee. City of the Slaves, 
to-night! 

" To thy duty now and ever! 

Dream no more of rest or stay ; 
Give to Freedom's great endeavor 
All thou art and hast to-day : " — 
Thus, above the city's murmur, saith a Voice or 
seems to say. 

Ye with heart and vision gifted 

To discern and love the right, 
Whose worn faces have been lifted 
To the slowly-growing light. 
Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back 
the murk of night ! — 



1 90 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Ye who through long years of trial 
Still have held your purpose fast, 
While a lengthening shade the dial 
From the westering sunshine cast, 
And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of 
the last ! — 

Oh, my brothers! oh, my sisters! 

Would to God that ye were near^ 
Gazing with me down the vistas 
Of a sorrow strange and drear ; 
Would to God that ye were listening to the Voice I 
seem to hear! 

With the storm above us driving, 

With the false earth mined below — 
Who shall marvel if thus striving 
We have counted friend as foe ; 
Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for 
blow ? 

Well it may be that our natures 

Have grown sterner and more hard, 
And the freshness of their features 
Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred, 
And their harmonies of feeling overtasked and rudely 
jarred. 

Be it so. It should not swerve us 
From a purpose true and brave ; 

Dearer Freedom's rugged service 
Than the pastime of the slave ; 



LINES. 191 

Better is the storm above it than the quiet of the 
grave. 

Let us then, uniting, bury 

All our idle feuds in dust, 
And to future conflicts carry 
Mutual faith and common trust ; 
Always he who most forgiveth in his brother is most 
just. 

From the eternal shadow rounding 

All our sun and starlight here. 
Voices of our lost ones sounding 
Bid us be of heart and cheer. 
Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the 
inward ear. 

Know we not our dead are looking 

Downward with a sad surprise, 
All our strife of words rebuking 
With their mild and loving eyes ? 
Shall we grieve the holy angels ? Shall we cloud their 
blessed skies ? 

Let us draw their mantles o'er us 
Which have fallen in our way ; 
Let us do the work before us, 
Cheerly, bravely, while we may, 
Ere the long night-silence cometh, and with us it is 
not day! 

1845. 



192 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

LINES 
From a Letter to a Young Clerical Friend. 

A STRENGTH Thy scrvicc cannot tire — 
A faith which doubt can never dim — 

A heart of love, a lip of fire — 

Oh ! Freedom's God ! be Thou to him! 

Speak through him words of power and fear, 

As through Thy prophet bards of old, 
And let a scornful people hear 
, Once more Thy Sinai-thunders rolled. 

For lying lips Thy blessing seek, 
And hands of blood are raised to Thee, 

And on Thy children, crushed and weak. 
The oppressor plants his kneeling knee. 

Let then, oh, God! Thy servant dare 
Thy truth in all its power to tell. 

Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear 
The Bible from the grasp of hell! 

From hollow rite and narrow span 
Of law and sect by Thee released, 

Oh ! -teach him that the Christian man 
Ls holier than the Jewish priest. 



YORKTOWN. 193 

Chase back the shadows, gray and old, 

Of the dead ages from his way, 
And let his hopeful eyes behold 

The dawn of Thy millennial day ; — 

That day when fettered limb and mind 
Shall know the truth which maketh free, 

And he alone who loves his kind 

Shall, child-like, claim the love of Thee! 

1846. 



YORKTOWN. 

[Dr. Thatcher, surgeon in Scammel's regiment, in his 
description of the siege of Yorktown, says : " The labor on the 
Virginia plantations is performed altogether by a species of 
the human race cruelly wrested from their native country, and 
doomed to perpetual bondage, while their masters are man- 
fully contending for freedom and the natural rights of man. 
Such is the inconsistency of human nature." Eighteen hun- 
dred slaves were found at Yorktown, after its surrender, and 
restored to their masters. Well was it said by Dr. Barnes, 
in his late work on Slavery : " No slave was any nearer his free- 
dom after the surrender of Yorktown, than when Patrick 
Henry first taught the notes of liberty to echo among the 
hills and vales of Virginia."] 

From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still, 
Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill : 
Who curbs his steed at head of one? 
Hark! the low murmur : Washington! 
Who bends his keen, approving glance 
Where down the gorgeous line of France 



194 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Shine knightly star and plume of snow ? 
Thou too art victor, Rochambeau ! 

The earth which bears this calm array 
Shook with the war-charge yesterday, 
Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and w4ieel<, 
Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel ; 
October's clear and noonday sun 
Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun, 
And down night's double blackness fell, 
Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. 

Now all is hushed : the gleaming lines 
Stand moveless as the neighboring pines ; 
While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, 
The conquered hosts of England go : 
O'Hara's brow belies his dress, 
Gay Tarlton's troop ride bannerless : 
Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes, 
Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes! 

Nor thou alone : with one glad voice 
Let all thy sister States rejoice ; 
Let Freedom, in whatever clime 
She waits with sleepless eye her time, 
Shouting from cave and mountain wood, 
Make glad her desert solitude, 
While they who hunt her quail with fear : 
The New World's chain lies broken here! 

But who are they, who, cowering, wait 
Within the shattered fortress gate ? 



YOKKTO WN. 

Dark tillers of Virginia's soil, 
Classed with the battle's common spoil, 
With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine, 
With Indian weed and planters' wine. 
With stolen beeves, and foraged corn — 
Are they not men, Virginian born ? 

Oh! veil your faces, young and brave! 
Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave! 
Sons of the North-land, ye who set 
Stout hearts against the bayonet, 
And pressed with steady footfall near 
The moated battery's blazing tier, 
Turn your scarred faces from the sight, 
Let shame do homage to the right ! 

Lo ! threescore years have passed ; and where 
The Gallic timbrel stirred the air. 
With Northern drum-roll, and the clear. 
Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer, 
While Britain grounded on that plain 
The arms she might not lift again. 
As abject as in that old day 
The slave still toils his life away. 

Oh! fields still green and fresh in story. 

Old days of pride, old names of glory. 

Old marvels of the tongue and pen. 

Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men, 

Ye spared the wrong ; and over all 

Behold the avenging shadow fall ! 

Your world-wide honor stained with shame — 

Your freedom's self a hollow name ! 



195 



196 VOICES OF FREEDOM, 

Where^'s now the flag of that old war? 

Where flows its stripe? Where burns its star? 

Bear witness, Palo Alto's day, 

Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey, 

Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak, 

Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak : 

Symbol of terror and despair, 

Of chains and slaves, go seek it there! 

Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks! 
Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks! 
Brave sport to see the fledgling born 
Of Freedom by its parent torn ! 
Safe now is Spielberg's dungeon cell, 
Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell : 
With Slavery's flag o'er both unrolled, 
What of the New World fears the Old? 

1847. 



EGO. 

Written in the Book of a Friend. 

On page of thine I cannot trace 

The cold and heartless common-place — 

A statue's fixed and marble grace. 

For ever as these lines are penned, 
Still with the thought of thee will blend 
That of some loved and common friend — 



EGO. 197 

Who in life's desert track has made 
His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed 
Beneath the same remembered shade. 

And hence my pen unfettered moves 
In freedom which the heart approves — 
The negligence which friendship loves. 

And wilt thou prize my poor gift less 

For simple air and rustic dress, 

And sign of haste and carelessness ? — 

Oh! more than specious counterfeit 

Of sentiment, or studied wit, 

A heart like thine should value it. 

Yet half I fear my gift will be 
Unto thy book, if not to thee. 
Of more than doubtful courtesy. 

A banished name from Fashion's sphere, 

A lay unheard of Beauty''s ear. 

Forbid, disowned, — what do they here ? — 

Upon my ear not all in vain 

Came the sad captive's clanking chain — 

The groaning from his bed of pain. 

And sadder still, I saw the woe 

Which only wounded spirits know 

When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go. 



VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Spurned not alone in walks abroad, 
But from the " temples of the Lord " 



Deep a^ I felt, and stern and strong, 

In words which Prudence smothered long, 

My soul spoke out against the wrong ; 

Not mine alone the task to speak 
Of comfort to the poor and weak. 
And dry the tear on Sorrow^s cheak; 

But, mingled in the conflict warm, 
To pour the fiery breath of storm 
Through the harsh trumpet of Reform ; 

To brave Opinion's settled frown. 
From ermined robe and saintly gown. 
While wrestling reverenced Error down. 

Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, 
Cool shadows on the green sward lay. 
Flowers swung upon the bending spray. 

And, broad and bright, on either hand. 
Stretched the green slopes of Fairy land, 
With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned ; 

Whence voices called me like the flow, 
Which on the listener's ear will grow, 
Of forest streamlets soft and low. 



EGO. 199 

And gentle eyes, which still retain 
Their picture on the heart and brain, 
Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. 

In vain! — nor dream, nor rest, nor pause 
Remain for him who round him draws 
The battered mail of Freedom's cause. 

From youthful hopes — from each green spot 
Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, 
Where storm and tumult enter not — 

From each fair altar, where belong 
The offerings Love requires of Song 
In homage to her bright-eyed throng — 

With soul and strength, with heart and hand, 
I turned to Freedom's struggling band — 
To the sad Helots of our land. 

What marvel then that Fame should turn 
Her notes of praise to those of scorn — 
Her gifts reclaimed — her smiles withdrawn ? 

What matters it! — a few years more, 
Life's surge so restless heretofore 
Shall break upon the unknown shore! 

In that far land shall disappear 

The shadows which we follow here — 

The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere! 



200 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

Before no work of mortal hand, 
Of human will or strength expand 
The pearl gates of the Better Land ; 

Alone in that great love which gave 
Life to the sleeper of the grave, 
Resteth the power to " seek and save." 

Yet, if the spirit gazing through 

The vista of the past can view 

One deed to Heaven and virtue true — 

If through the wreck of wasted powers, 
Of garlands wreathed from Folly's bowers. 
Of idle aims and misspent hours — 

The eye can note one sacred spot 
By Pride and Self profaned not — 
A green place in the waste of thought — 

Where deed or word has rendered less 
"The sum of human wretchedness," 
And Gratitude looks forth to bless — 

The simple burst of tenderest feeling 
From sad hearts worn by evil-dealing, 
For blessing on the hand of healing, — 

Better than Glory's pomp will be 
That green and blessed spot to me — 
A palm-shade in Eternity ! — 



EGO. 20I 

Something of Time which may invite 
The purified and spiritual sight 
To rest on with a calm delight. 

And when the summer winds shall sweep 
With their light wings my place of sleep, 
And mosses round my head-stone creep — 

If still, as Freedom^'s rallying sign. 
Upon the young heart's altars shine 
The very fires they caught from mine — 

If words my lips once uttered still, 
In the calm faith and steadfast will 
Of other hearts, their work fulfil — 

Perchance with joy the soul may learn 
These tokens, and its eye discern 
The fires which on those altars burn — 

A marvellous joy that even then, 

The spirit hath its life again, 

In the strong hearts of mortal men. 

Take, lady, then, the gift I bring, 

No gay and graceful offering — 

No flower-smile of the laughing spring. 

Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May. 
With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, 
My sad and sombre gift I lay. 



202 VOICES OF FREEDOM. 

And if it deepens in thy mind 

A sense of suffering human kind — 

The outcast and the spirit-blind : 

Oppressed and spoiled on every side, 
By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, 
Life's common courtesies denied ; 

Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, 
Children by want and misery nursed, 
Tasting life's bitter cup at first ; 

If to their strong appeals which come 
From the fireless hearth, and crowded room. 
And the close alley's noisome gloom — 

Though dark the hands upraised to thee 

In mute beseeching agony, 

Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy — 

Not vainly on thy gentle shrine. 

Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine 

Their varied gifts, I offer mine. 

1843. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE FROST SPIRIT. 

He comes — he comes — the Frost Spirit comes! 

You may trace his footsteps now 
On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the 

brown hilPs withered brow. 
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees 

where their pleasant green came forth, 
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have 

shaken them down to earth. 

He comes — he comes — the Frost Spirit comes!-— 

from the frozen Labrador — 
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the 

white bear wanders o'er — 
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the 

luckless forms below 
In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble 

statues grow! 

He comes — he comes — the Frost Spirit comes! — 

on the rushing Northern blast, 
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his 

fearful breath went past. 
203 



204 MISCELLANEOUS. 

With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where 

the fires of Hecla glow 
On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice 

below. 

He comes — he comes — the Frost Spirit comes ! — 
and the quiet lake shall feel 

The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to 
the skater's heel ; 

And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, 
or sang to the leaning grass, 

Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mourn- 
ful silence pass. 

He comes — he comes — the Frost Spirit comes! — 
let us meet him as we may, 

And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil 
power away ; 

And gather closer the circle round, when that fire- 
light dances high. 

And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his 
sounding wing goes by! 

1830. 



THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 

[" The manner in which the Waldeneses and heretics dis- 
seminated their principles among the CATHOLIC gentry, was 
by carrying with them a box of trinkets, or articles of dress. 
Having entered the houses of the gentry, and disposed of some 
of their goods, they cautiously intimated that they had com- 



THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 20 5 

modities far more valuable than these — inestimable jewels, 
which they would show if they could be protected from the 
clergy. They would then give their purchasers a bible or 
testament; and thereby many were deluded into heresy." — 
R. Saccko^ 

" Oh, lady fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and 

rare — 
The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's 

queen might wear ; 
And my pearls are pure as thine own fair neck, with 

w^hose radiant light they vie ; 
I have brought them with me a weary way, — will my 

gentle lady buy ? " 

And the lady smiled on the worn old man through 

the dark and clustering curls, 
Which veiled her brow as she bent to view his silks 

and glittering pearls ; 
And she placed their price in the old man's hand, and 

lightly turned away. 
But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call — 

'' My gentle lady, stay ! " 

" Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre 

flings. 
Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the 

lofty brow of kings — 
A w^onderful pearl of exceeding price, w^hose virtue 

shall not decay, 
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing 

on thy way! " 



206 MISCELLANE US. 

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her 

form of grace was seen, 
Where- her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved 

their clasping pearls between ; — 
'' Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou 

traveller gray and old — 
And name the price of thy precious gem, and my 

page shall count thy gold." 

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a 

small and meagre book, 
Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding 

robe he took! 
" Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as 

such to thee! 
Nay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, for the word of 

God is free! " 

The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left 
behind 

Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born 
maiden's mind. 

And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the low- 
liness of truth. 

And given her human heart to God in its beautiful 
hour of youth! 

And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil 

faith had power, 
The courtly knights of her father's train, and the 

maidens of her power ; 



THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN. 



207 



And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly 

feet untrod, 
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the 

perfect love of God! 

1830. 



THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN. 

Not always as the whirlwind's rush 

On Horeb's mount of fear, 
Not always as the burning bush 

To Midian's shepherd seer, 
Nor as the awful voice which came 

To Israel's prophet bards, 
Nor as the tongues of cloven flame, 

Nor gift of fearful words — 

Not always thus, with outward sign 

Of fire or voice from Heaven, 
The message of a truth divine, 

The call of God is given! 
Awaking in the human heart 

Love for the true and right — 
Zeal for the Christian's " better part," 

Strength for the Christian's fight. 

Nor unto manhood's heart alone 

The holy influence steals : 
Warm with a rapture not its own, 

The heart of woman feels ! 



208 MISCELLANE O US. 

As she who by Samaria's wall 
The Saviour's errand sought — 

As those who with the fervent Paul 
And meek Aquila wrought : 

Or those meek ones whose martydom 

Rome's gathered grandeur saw : 
Or those who in their Alpine home 

Braved the Crusader's war, 
When the green Vaudois, trembling, heard, 

Through all its vales of death. 
The martyr's song of triumph poured 

From woman's failing breath. 

And gently, by a thousand things 

Which o'er our spirits pass, 
Like breezes o'er the harp's fine strings, 

Or vapors o'er a glass. 
Leaving their token strange and new 

Of music or of shade. 
The summons to the right and true 

And merciful is made. 



Oh, then, if gleams of truth and light 

Flash o'er thy waiting mind, 
Unfolding to thy mental sight 

The wants of human kind ; 
If brooding over human grief, 

The earnest wish is known 
To soothe and gladden with relief 

An ansfuish not thine own : 



Jl/V SOUL AND I. 209 

Though heralded with naught of fear. 

Or outward sign, or show : 
Though only to the inward ear 

It whispers soft and low ; 
Though dropping, as the manna fell, 

Unseen, yet from above, 
Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well — 

Thy Father's call of love! 

[833. __o_ 

MY SOUL AND I. 

Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark 

I would question thee, 
Alone in the shadow drear and stark 

With God and me! 

What, my soul, was thy errand here? 

Was it mirth or ease, 
Or heaping up dust from year to year? 

" Nay, none of these! " 

Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight 

Whose eye looks still 
And steadily on thee through the night : 

"To do His will!" 

What hast thou done, oh soul of mine 
That thou tremblest so ? — 

Has thou wrought His task, and kept the line 
He bade thee go? 



2 1 AIISCELLANE O US. 

What, silent all ! — art sad of cheer ? 

Art fearful now? 
When God seemed far and men were near 

How brave wert thou? 

Aha! thou tremblest! — well I see 

ThouVt craven grown. 
Is it so hard with God and me 

To stand alone? — 



Summon thy sunshine bravery back, 

Oh, wretched sprite! 
Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black 

Abysmal night. 

What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, 

For God and Man, 
From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth 

To life's mid span ? 

Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, 

But weak and low. 
Like far sad murmurs on my ear 

They come and go. 

" I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, 

And borne the Right 
From beneath the footfall of the throng 

To life and light. 



MY SOUL AND I. 211 

" Wherever Freedom shivered a chain, 

God speed, quoth I ; 
To Error amidst her shouting train 

I gave the lie." 

Ah, soul of mine ! ah, soul of mine ! 

Thy deeds are well : 
Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine ? 

My soul, pray tell. 

" Of all the work my hand hath wrought 

Beneath the sky, 
Save a place in kindly human thought, 

No gain have I." 

Go to, go to! — for thy very self 

Thy deeds were done : 
Thou for fame, the miser for pelf 

Your end is one! 



And where art thou going, soul of mine ? 

Canst see the end? 
And whither this troubled life of thine 

Evermore doth tend? 



What daunts thee now ? — what shakes thee so ? 

My sad soul say. 
" I see a cloud like a curtain low 

Hang o''er my way. 



2 1 2 MIS CELL A NE O US. 

" Whither I go I cannot tell : 

That cloud hangs black, 

High as the heaven and deep as hell, 
Across my track. 

" I see its shadow coldly enwrap 

The souls before. 
Sadly they enter it, step by step. 

To return no more. 



"They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel 

To Thee in prayer. 
They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel 

That it still is there. 



" In vain they turn from the dread Before 
To the Known and Gone ; 

For while gazing behind them evermore 
Their feet glide on. 

" Yet, at times, I see upon sweet pale faces 

A light begin 
To tremble, as if from holy places 

And shrines within. 



" And at times methinks their cold lips move 

With hymn and prayer, 
As if somewhat of awe, but more of love 

And hope were there. 



MV SOUL AND L 213 

" I call on the souls who have left the light 

To reveal their lot ; 
I bend my ear to that wall of night, 

And they answer not. 



" But I hear around me sighs of pain 

And the cry of fear, 
And a sound like the slow sad dropping of rain, 

Each drop a tear! 

" Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day, 

I am moving thither : 
I must pass beneath it on my way — 

God pity me ! — Whither ? " 

Ah soul of mine! so brave and wise 

In the life-storm loud, 
Fronting so calmly all human eyes 

In the sun-lit crowd! 



Now standing apart with God and me 
Thou art weakness all, 

Gazing vainly after the things to be 

Through Death's dread wall. 



But never for this, never for this 
Was thy being lent ; 

For the craven's fear is but selfishness, 
Like his merriment. 



2 1 4 MISCELLANE US. 

Folly and Fear are sisters twain : 
One closing her eyes, 

The other peopling the dark inane 
With spectral lies. 

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls 
Whate''er thou fearest ; 

Round Him in calmest music rolls 
Whatever thou hearest. 



What to thee is shadow, to Him is day, 
And the end He knoweth, 

And not on a blind and aimless way 
The spirit goeth. 

Man sees no future — a phantom show 

Is alone before him ; 
Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, 

And flowers bloom o'er him. 



Nothing before, nothing behind : 
The steps of Faith 

Fall on the seeming void, and find 
The rock beneath. 



The Present, the Present is all thou hast 
For thy sure possessing ; 

Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast 
Till it gives its blessing. 



MY SOUL AND I. 21 5 

Why fear the night? why shrink from Death, 

That phantom wan ? 
There is nothing in Heaven or earth beneath 

Save God and man. 



Peopling the shadows we turn from Him 
And from one another ; 

All is spectral and vague and dim 

Save God and our brother! 



Like warp and woof all destinies 

Are woven fast, 
Linked in sympathy like the keys 

Of an organ vast. 



Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar ; 

Break but one 
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar 

Through all will run. 



Oh, restless spirit! wherefore strain 
Beyond thy sphere? — 

Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain 
Are now and here. 



Back to thyself is measured well 

All thou hast given ; 
Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell, 

His bliss thy heaven. 



2 1 6 M ISC ELL ANE O US. 

And in life, in death, in dark and light 

All are in God's care ; 
Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, 

And He is there! 

All which is real now remaineth, 

And fadeth never : 
The hand which upholds it now, sustaineth 

The soul forever. 

Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness 

His own thy will, 
And with strength from Him shall thy utter weakness 

Life's task fulfil ; 

And that cloud itself, which now before thee 

Lies dark in view. 
Shall with beams of light from the inner glory 

Be stricken through. 

And like meadow mist through Autumn's dawn 

Uprolling thin, 
Its thickest folds when about thee drawn 

Let sunlight in. 

Then of what is to be, and of what is done 

Why queriest thou ? — 
The past and the time to be are one, 

And both are now! 

1847. 



TO A FRIEND. 21/ 

TO A FRIEND, 
On Her Return from Europe. 

How smiled the land of France 
Under thy blue eye's glance, 

Light-hearted rover! 
Old walls of chateaux gray, 
Towers of an early day, 
Which the Three Colors play 

Flauntingly over. 

Now midst the brilliant train 
Thronging the banks of Seine : 

Now midst the splendor 
Of the wild Alpine range, 
Waking with change on change 
Thoughts in thy young heart strange, 

Lovely, and tender. 

Vales, soft Elysian, 
Like those in the vision 

Of Mirza, when, dreaming. 
He saw the long hollow dell, 
Touched by the prophet's spell, 
Into an ocean swell 

With its isles teeming. 

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years. 
Splintering with icy spears 
Autumn's blue heaven : 



2 1 8 MISCELLANE O US. 

Loose rock and frozen slide, 
Hung on the mountain side, 
Waiting their hour to glide 
Downward, storm-driven! 

Rhine stream, by castle old, 
Baron's and robber's hold, 

Peacefully flowing ; 
Sweeping through vineyards green. 
Or where the cliffs are seen 
O'er the broad wave between 

Grim shadows throwing. 

Or where St. Peter's dome 
Swells o'er eternal Rome, 

Vast, dim, and solemn, — 
Hymns ever chanting low — 
Censers swung to and fro — 
Sable stoles sweeping slow 

Cornice and column! 

Oh, as from each and all 
Will there not voices call 

Evermore back again? 
In the mind's gallery 
Wilt thou not always see 
Dim phantoms beckon thee 

O'er that old track again ? 

New forms thy presence haunt — 
New voices softly chant — 
New faces greet thee! — 



TO A FRIEND. 219 

Pilgrims from many a shrine 
Hallowed by poef s line, 
At memory^s magic sign, 
Rising to meet thee. 

And when such visions come 
Unto thy olden home. 

Will they not waken 
Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
Led thee o'er sea and land 
Back to the household band 

Whence thou wast taken? 

While, at the sunset time, 
Swells the cathedral's chime, 

Yet, in thy dreaming, 
While to thy spirit's eye 
Yet the vast mountains lie 
Piled in the Switzer's sky, 

Icy and gleaming : 

Prompter of silent prayer, 
Be the wild picture there 

In the mind's chamber, 
And, through each coming day 
Him, who, as staff and stay. 
Watched o'er thy wandering way, 

Freshly remember. 

So, when the call shall be 
Soon or late unto thee, 
As to all given, 



220 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Still may that picture live, 
All its fair forms survive, 
And to thy spirit give 

Gladness in Heaven ! 

1841. 



TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. ^ 

God bless ye, brothers ! — in the fight 
YeVe v^aging novv^, ye cannot fail, 

For better is your sense of right 
Than kingcraft's triple mail. 

Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban 
More mighty is your simplest word ; 

The free heart of an honest man 
That! crosier or the sword. 

Go — let your bloated Church rehearse 
The lesson it has learned so well ; 

It moves not with its prayer or curse 
The gates of Heaven or hell. 

Let the State scaffold rise again — 
Did Freedom die when Russell died ? 

Forget ye how the blood of Vane 
From earth's green bosom cried ? 

1 It can scarcely be necessary to say that the author refers 
to those who are seeking the reform of political evils in Great 
Britain by peaceful and Christian means. 



TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 221 

The great hearts of your olden time 
Are beating with you, full and strong ; 

All holy memories and sublime 
And glorious round ye throng. 

The bluff, bold men of Runnymede 
Are with ye still in times like these ; 

The shades of England's mighty dead;, 
Your cloud of witnesses! 



The truths ye urge are borne abroad 

By every wind and every tide ; 
The voice of Nature and of God 

Speaks out upon your side. 

The weapons which your hands have found 
Are those which Heaven itself hath wrought, 

Light, Truth, and Love ; — your battle ground 
The free, broad field of Thought. 

No partial, selfish purpose breaks 

The simple beauty of your plan. 
Nor lie from throne or altar shakes 

Your steady faith in man. 

The languid pulse of England starts 

And bounds beneath your words of power ; 

The beating of her million hearts 
Is with you at this hour! 



222 MIS CELL A NE US. 

Oh, ye who, with undoubting eyes, 

Through present cloud and gathering storm, 

Behold the span of Freedom's skies, 
And sunshine soft and warm, — 

Press bravely onward ! — not in vain 
Your generous trust in human kind ; 

The good which bloodshed could not gain 
Your peaceful zeal shall find. 

Press on! — the triumph shall be won 
Of common rights and equal laws, 

The glorious dream of Harrington, 
And Sidney's good old cause. 

Blessing the cotter and the crown. 
Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup ; 

And, plucking not the highest down, 
Lifting the lowest up. 

Press on ! — and we who may not share 

The toil or glory of your fight, 
May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, 

God's blessing on the right! 

1843. 



THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. 

The Quaker of the olden time! — 

How calm and firm and true. 
Unspotted by its wrong and crime, 

He walked the dark earth through! 



THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TIME. 223 

The lust of power, the love of gain, 

The thousand lures of sin 
Around him, had no power to stain 

The purity within. 

With that deep insight which detects 

All great things in the small, 
And knows how each man''s life affects 

The spiritual life of all, 
He walked by faith and not by sight, 

By love and not by law ; 
The presence of the wrong or right 

He rather felt than saw. 

He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, 

That nothing stands alone, 
That whoso gives the motive, makes 

His brother's sin his own. 
And, pausing not for doubtful choice 

Of evils great or small. 
He listened to that inward voice 

Which called away from all. 

Oh! Spirit of that early day, 

So pure and strong and true, 
Be with us in the narrow way 

Our faithful fathers knew. 
Give strength the evil to forsake. 

The cross of Truth to bear, 
And love and reverent fear to make 

Our daily lives a prayer! 

1838. 



224 MISCELLANE US. 



THE REFORMER. 

All grim and soiled and brown with tan, 

I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, 
Smiting the godless shrines of man 
Along his path. 

The Church beneath her trembling dome 

Essayed in vain her ghostly charm : 
Wealth shook within his gilded home 
With strange alarm. 

Fraud from his secret chambers fled 

Before the sunlight bursting in ; 
Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head 
To drown the din. 

" Spare/' Art implored, " yon holy pile ; 

That grand, old, time-worn, turret spare 
Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle. 
Cried ou^, " Forbear! " 

Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind. 
Groped for his old accustomed stone, 
Leaned on his staff, and wept, to find 
His seat overthrown. 

Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, 

O'erhung with paly locks of gold : 
" Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, 
" The fair, the old?" 



THE REFORMER. 225 

Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke, 

Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; 
Shuddering and sick at heart I woke, 
As from a dream. 



I looked : aside the dust cloud rolled — 
The Waster seemed the Builder too ; 
Upspringing from the ruined Old 

I saw the New. 

'T was but the ruin of the bad — 

The wasting of the wrong and ill ; 
Whate'er of good the old time had 
Was living still. 

Calm grew the brows of him I feared ; 

The frown which awed me passed away, 
And left behind a smile which cheered 
Like breaking day. 

The grain grew green on battle-plains, 

O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; 
The slave stood forging from his chains 
The spade and plough. 

Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay 

And cottage windows, flower-entwined, 
Looked out upon the peaceful bay 
And hills behind. 



226 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red. 

The hghts on brimming crystal fell, 
Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head 
And mossy well. 

Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope^ 
Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, 
And with the idle gallows-rope 
The young child played. 

Where the doomed victim in his cell 
Had counted o'er the weary hours, 
Glad school-girls, answering to the bell. 
Came crowned with flowers. 



Grown wiser for the lesson given, 

I fear no longer, for I know 
That, where the share is deepest driven, 
The best fruits grow. 



The outworn rite, the old abuse. 

The pious fraud transparent grown. 
The good held captive in the use 
Of wrong alone — 



These wait their doom, from that great law 
Which makes the past time serve to-day ; 
And fresher life the world shall draw 
From their decay. 



THE REFORMER. 22/ 

Oh! backward-looking son of time! — 

The new is old, the old is new, 
The cycle of a change sublime 
Still sweeping through. 

So wisely taught the Indian seer; 

Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, 
Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, 
Are one, the same. 

As idly as, in that old day 

Thou mournest, did thy sires repine, 
So, in his time, thy child, grown gray, 
Shall sigh for thine. 

Yet, not the less for them or thou 

The eternal step of Progress beats 
To that great anthem, calm and slow, 
Which God repeats! 

Take heart ! — the Waster builds again — 

A charmed life old goodness hath ; 
The tares may perish — but the grain 
Is not for death. 

God works in all things ; all obey 

His first propulsion from the night : 
Ho, wake and watch! — the world is gray 
With morning light! 

1846. 



228 MISCELLANE US. 



THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 

Look on him! — through his dungeon grate 

Feebly and cold, the morning light 
Comes stealing round him, dim and late. 

As if it loathed the sight. 
Reclining on his strawy bed. 
His hand upholds his drooping head — 
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, 
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; 
And o'er his bony fingers flow 
His long, dishevelled locks of snow. 

No grateful fire before him glows. 
And yet the winter's breath is chill ; 

And o'er his half-clad person goes 
The frequent ague thrill! 

Silent, save ever and anon, 

A sound, half murmur and half groan. 

Forces apart the painful grip 

Of the old sufferer's bearded lip ; 

O sad and crushing is the fate 

Of old age chained and desolate! 

Just God! why lies that old man there? 

A murderer shares his prison bed, 
Whose eye-balls, through his horrid hair. 

Gleam on him, fierce and red ; 
And the rude oath and heartless jeer 
Fall ever on his loathing ear. 



THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 229 

And, or in wakefulness or sleep, 
Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep 
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb, 
Crimson with murder, touches him! 

What has the gray-haired prisoner done ? 

Has murder stained his hands with gore? 
Not so ; his crime's a fouler one ; 

God made the old man poor! 
For this he shares a felon's cell — 
The fittest earthly type of hell ! 
For this, the boon for which he poured 
His young blood on the invader''s sword, 
And counted light the fearful cost — 
His blood-gained liberty is lost! 

And so, for such a place of rest. 

Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain 

On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest. 
And Saratoga's plain? 

Look forth, thou man of many scars. 

Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars ; 

It must be joy, in sooth, to see 

Yon monument upreared to thee — 

Piled granite and a prison cell — 

The land repays thy service well! 

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, 

And fling the starry banner out ; 
Shout " Freedom ! " till your lisping ones 

Give back their cradle-shout : 



230 MISCELLANE O US. 

Let boastful eloquence declairn 
Of honor, liberty, and fame ; 
Still let the poet's strain be heard, 
With glory for each second word, 
And everything with breath agree 
To praise " our glorious liberty! " 

But when the patriot cannon jars 
That prison's cold and gloomy wall, 

And through its grates the stripes and stars 
Rise on the wind and fall — 

Think ye that prisoners aged ear 

Rejoices in the general cheer? 

Think ye his dim and failing eye 



Is kindled at your pageantr}; 



Sorrowing of soul, and chajned of limb, 
What is your carnival to him? 

Down with the law that binds him thus! 

Unworthy freemen, let it find 
No refuge from the withering curse 

Of God and human kind! 
Open the prison's living tornb. 
And usher from its brooding gloom 
The victims of your savage code, 
To the free sun and air of God ; 
No longer dare as crime to brand 
The chastening of the Almighty's hand. 

1847. 



LINES. 231 



Written on Reading Several Pamphlets Published 
BY Clergymen against the Abolition of the 
Gallows. 

I. 

The suns of eighteen centuries have shone 

Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made 

The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone, 
And mountain moss, a pillow for his head ; 

And He, who wandered with the peasant Jew, 
And broke with publicans the bread of shame. 
And drank, with blessings in His Father's name, 

The water which Samaria's outcast drew. 

Hath now His temples upon every shore, 

Altar and shrine and priest, — and incense dim 
Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn. 

From lips which press the temple's marble floor, 

Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore! 

II. 

Yet as of old, when, meekly " doing good," 
He fed a blind and selfish multitude. 
And even the poor companions of His lot 
With their dim earthly vision knew Him not, 

How ill are His high teachings understood! 
Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest 

At His own altar binds the chain anew ; 
Where He hath bidden to Life's equal feast, 

Tlic starving many wait upon the few ; 



232 M ISC ELLA NE O US. 

Where He hath spoken Peace, His name hath been 
The loudest war-cry of contending men ; 
Priests, pale with vigils, in His name have blessed 
The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, 
Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, 
And crossed its blazon with the holy sign ; 
Yea, in His name who bade the erring live. 
And daily taught His lesson — to forgive! — 

Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel ; 
And, with His words of mercy on their lips, 
Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips. 

And the grim horror of the straining wheel ; 
Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb, 
Who saw before his searing eye-balls swim 

The image oi their Christ, in cruel zeal, 
Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly 
to him! 

III. 



And beaded with its red and ghastly dew 
The vines and olives of the Holy Land — 

The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew — 
The white-sown bones of heretics, where'er 
They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear — 
Goa's dark dungeons — Malta's sea-washed cell, 

Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung 

Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, 
Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of hell! 
The midnight of Bartholomew — the stake 

Of Smithtield, and that thrice-accursed flame 
Wh'ch Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake — 



LINES. 233 

New England's scaifold, and the priestly sneer 
Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear, 

When guilt itself a human tear might claim, — 
Bear witness, O Thou wronged and merciful One! 
That Earth's most hateful crimes have in Thy name 
been done! 



Thank God! that I have lived to see the time 
When the great truth begins at last to find 
An utterance from the deep heart of mankind. 
Earnest and clear, that all Revenge is Crime! 
That man is holier than a creed, — that all 

Restraint upon him must consult his good, 
Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall. 

And Love look in upon his solitude. 
The beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught 
Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought 
Into the common mind and popular thought ; 
And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore 
The humble fishers listened with hushed oar. 
Have found an echo in the general heart. 
And of the public faith become a living part. 



Who shall arrest this tendency ? — Bring back 
The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack ? 
Harden the softening human heart again 
To cold indifference to a brother's pain? 
Ye most unhappy men! — who, turned away, 
From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day, 
Grope in the shadows of Man's twilight timo 



234 MISCELLANEOUS. 

What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood 
O'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, 

Permitted in another age and clime ? 
Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew 
Rebuked the Pagan's mercy, when he knew 
No evil in the Just One ? — Wherefore turn 
To the dark cruel past ? — Can we not learn 
From the pure Teacher's life, how mildly free 
Is the great Gospel of Humanity? 
The Flamen's knife is bloodless, and no more 
Mexitli's altars soak with human gore, 
No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke 
Through the green arches of the Druid's oak ; 
And ye of milder faith, with your high claim 
Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, 
Will ye become the Druids of our time ? 

Set up your scaiFold-altars in our land, 
And, consecrators of Law's darkest clime, 

Urge to its loathsome work the hangman's hand? 
Beware — lest human nature, roused at last, 
From its peeled shoulder your encumbrance cast, 

And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood, 
Rank ye with those who led their victims round 
The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound. 

Abhorred of Earth and Heaven — a pagan brother 
hood! 

1842. 



THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 235 



THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 



Far from his close and noisome cell, 

By grassy lane and sunny stream, 
Blown clover field and strawberry dell, 
And green and meadow freshness, fell 

The footsteps of his dream. 
Again from careless feet the dew 

Of summer's misty morn he shook ; 
Again with merry heart he threw 

His light line in the rippling brook. 
Back crowded all his school-day joys — 

He urged the ball and quoit again. 
And heard the shout of laughing boys 

Come ringing down the walnut glen. 
Again he felt the western breeze, 

With scent of flowers and crisping hay ; 
And down again through wind-stirred trees 

He saw the quivering sunlight play. 
An angel in home's vine-hung door. 
He saw his sister smile once more ; 
Once more the truanfs brown-locked head 
Upon his mother's knee was laid, 
And sweetly lulled to slumber there. 
With evening's holy hymn ^nd prayer. 

1 Some of the leading sectarian papers have lately published 
the letter of a clergyman, giving an account of his attendance 
upon a criminal (who had committed murder during a fit of in- 
toxication), at the time of his execution, in western New York. 



236 MISCELLANE O US. 



He woke. At once on heart and brain 
The present Terror rushed again — 
Clanked on his hmbs the felon's chain! 
He woke, to hear the church-tower tell 
Time's foot-fall on the conscious bell, 
And, shuddering, feel that clanging din 
His life's last hour had ushered in ; 
To see within his prison yard, 
Through the small window, iron-barred, 
The gallows' shadow rising dim 
Between the sunrise heaven and him, — 
A horror in God's blessed air — 

A blackness in His morning light — 
Like some foul devil-altar there 

Built up by demon hands at night. 

And, maddened by that evil sight. 
Dark, horrible, confused, and strange, 
A chaos of wild, weltering change, 
All power of check and guidance gone, 
Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on. 
In vain he strove to breathe a prayer, 

In vain he turned the Holy Book; 
He only heard the gallows-stair 

Creak as the wind its timbers shook. 

The writer describes the agony of the wretched being — his 
abortive attempts at prayer — his appeal for life — his fear of a 
violent death ; and, after declaring his belief that the poor vic- 
tim died without hope of salvation, concludes with a warm 
eulogy upon the Gallows, being more, than ever convinced of 
its utility by the awful dread and horror which it inspired. 



THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 237 

No dream for him of sin forgiven. 
While still that baleful spectre stood, 
With its hoarse murmur, -'• Blood for blood I ^"^ 

Between him and the pitying Heaven! 



Low on his dungeon floor he knelt, 

And smote his breast, and on his chain, 
Whose iron clasp he always felt. 

His hot tears fell like rain ; 
And near him, with the cold, calm look 
And tone of one whose formal part, 
Unwarmed, unsoftened of the heart. 
Is measured out by rule and book. 
With placid lip and tranquil blood, 
The hangman's ghostly ally stood, 
Blessing with solemn text and word 
The gallows-drop and strangling cord ; 
Lending the sacred GospePs awe 
And sanction to the crime of Law. 

IV. 

He saw the victim's tortured brow — 

The sweat of anguish starting there — 
The record of a nameless woe 
In the dim eye's imploring stare, 
Seen hideous through the long, damp hair 
Fingers of ghastly skin and bone 
Working and writhing on the stone! — 
And heard, by mortal terror wrung 
From heaving breast and stiffened tongue, 
The choking sob and low hoarse prayer ; 



238 MISCELLANE O US. 

As o'er his half-crazed fancy came 

A vision of the eternal flame — 

Its smoking cloud of agonies — 

Its demon-worm that never dies — 

The everlasting rise and fall 

Of fire-waves round the infernal wall ; 

While high above that dark red flood, 

Black, giant-like, the gallows stood : 

Two busy fiends attending there ; 

One with cold mocking rite and prayer, 

The other, with impatient grasp. 

Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp! 

V. 

The unfelt rite at length was done — 

The prayer unheard at length was said — 
An hour had passed : — the noon-day sun 

Smote on the features of the dead! 
And he who stood the doomed beside, 
Calm ganger of the swelling tide 
Of mortal agony and fear, 
Heeding with curious eye and ear 
Whatever revealed the keen excess 
Of man's extremest wretchedness : 
And who in that dark anguish saw 

An earnest of the victim's fate, 
The vengeful terrors of God's law, 
The kindlings of Eternal hate — 
The first drops of that fiery rain 
Which beats the dark red realm of pain, — 
Did he uplift his earnest cries 

Against the crime of Law, which gave 
His brother to that fearful grave, 



THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 239 

Whereon Hope's moonlight never lies. 

And Faith's white blossoms never wave 
To the soft breath of Memory's sighs ; — 
Which sent a spirit marred and stained, 
By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, 
In madness and in blindness stark. 
Into the silent, unknown dark? 
No — from the wild and shrinking dread 
With which he saw the victim led 

Beneath the dark veil which divides 
Ever the living from the dead, 

And Nature's solemn secret hides, 
The man of prayer can only draw 
New reasons for his bloody law ; 
New faith in staying Murder's hand 
By murder at that Law's command ; 
New reverence for the gallows-rope, 
As human nature's latest hope ; 
Last relic of the good old time. 
When Power found license for its crime, 
And held a writhing world in check 
By that fell cord about its neck ; 
Stifled Sedition's rising shout. 
Choked the young breath of Freedom out. 
And timely checked the words which sprung 
From Heresy's forbidden tongue ; 
While in its noose of terror bound, 
The Church its cherished union found, 
Conforming, on the Moslem plan. 
The motley-colored mind of man, 
Not by the Koran and the Sword, 
But by the Bible and the Cord! 



240 MISCELLANEOUS. 

VI. 

Oh, Thou! at whose rebuke the grave 
Back to warm hfe its sleeper gave, 
Beneath whose sad and tearful glance 
The cold and changed countenance 
Broke the still horror of its trance, 
And waking, saw with joy above, 
A brothers face of tenderest love ; 
Thou, unto whom the blind and lamC;, 
The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, 
And from thy very garment's hem 
Drew life and healing unto them. 
The burden of Thy holy faith 
Was love and life, not hate and death, 
Man's demon-ministers of pain, 

The fiends of his revenge, were sent 

From Thy pure Gospel's element 
To their dark home again. 
Thy name is Love! What, then, is he, 

Who in that name the gallows rears, 
An awful altar built to Thee, 

With sacrifice of blood and tears? 
Oh, once again Thy healing lay 

On the blind eyes which know Thee not ; 
And let the light of Thy pure day 

Melt in upon his darkened thought. 
Soften his hard, cold heart, and show 

The power which in forbearance lies, 
And let him feel that mercy now 

Is better than old sacrifice! 



THE HUMAN SACRIFICE, 24 1 



VII. 

As on the White Sea's ^ charmed shore, 

The Parsee sees his holy hill 
With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o'er, 
Yet knows beneath them, evermore, 

The low, pale fire is quivering still ; 
So underneath its clouds of sin, 

The heart of man retaineth yet 
Gleams of its holy origin ; 

And half-quenched stars that never set, 
Dim colors of its faded bow, 

And early beauty, linger there. 
And o'er its wasted desert blow 

Faint breathings of its morning air. 
Oh ! never yet upon the scroll 
Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul, 

Hath Heaven inscribed *' Despair!" 
Cast not the clouded gem away, 
Quench not the dim but living ray — 

My brother man. Beware! 
With that deep voice which from the skies 
Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, 

God's angel cries. Forbear! 

1843. 

1 Among the Tartars, the Caspian is known as Akdingis, 
that is, White Sea. Baku, on its Persian side, is remarkable 
for its perpetual fire, scarcely discoverable under the pitchy 
clouds of smoke from the bitumen which feeds it. It is the 
natural fire-altar of the old Persian worship. 



242 MISCELLANE US. 



RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 

Oh, Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 

Thy weary ones receiving, 
And o'er them, silent as a dream, 

Thy grassy mantle weaving, 
Fold softly in thy long embrace 

That heart so worn and broken, 
And cool its pulse of fire beneath 

Thy shadows old and oaken. 

Shut out from him the bitter word 

And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
Nor let the storms of yesterday 

Disturb his quiet morning. 
Breathe over him forgetful ness 

Of all save deeds of kindness, 
And, save to smiles of grateful eyes. 

Press down his lids in blindness. 

There, where with living ear and eye 

He heard Potomac^'s flowing. 
And, through his tall ancestral trees. 

Saw autumn's sunset glowing, 
He sleeps — still looking to the West, 

Beneath the dark wood shadow. 
As if he still would see the sun 

Sink down on wave and meadow. 

Bard, Sage, and Tribune! — in himself 
All moods of mind contrasting — 



RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 243 

The tenderest wail of human woe, 
The SGorn like lightning blasting ; 

The pathos which from rival eyes 
Unwilling tears could summon. 

The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 
Of hatred scarcely human! 

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, 

From lips of life-long sadness ; 
Clear picturings of majestic thought 

Upon a ground of madness ; 
And over all Romance and Song 

A classic beauty throwing, 
And laurelled CUo at his side 

Her storied pages showing. 

All parties feared him : each in turn 

Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
As right or left his fatal glance 

And spectral finger pointed. 
Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 

With trenchant wit unsparing, 
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 

The robe Pretence was wearing. 

Too honest or too proud to feign 

A love he never cherished, 
Beyond Virginia's border line 

His patriotism perished. 
While others hailed in distant skies 

Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
He only saw the mountain bird 

Stoop o'er his Old Dominion! 



244 MISCELLANE O US. 

Still through each change of fortune strange, 

Racked nerve, and brain all burning, 
His loving faith in Mother-land 

Knew never shade of turning ; 
By Britain\s lakes, by Neva's wave. 

Whatever sky was o'er him, 
He heard her rivers' rushing sound, 

Her blue peaks rose before him. 

He held his slaves, yet made withal 

No false and vain pretences. 
Nor paid a lying priest to seek 

For scriptural defences. 
His harshest words of proud rebuke, 

His bitterest taunt and scorning. 
Fell fire-like on the Northern brow 

That bent to him in fawning. 

He held his slaves : yet kept the while 

His reverence for the Human ; 
In the dark vassals of his will 

He saw but Man and Woman! 
No hunter of God's outraged poor 

His Roanoke valley entered ; 
No trader in the souls of men 

Across his threshold ventured.^ 

And when the old and wearied man 
Laid down for his last sleeping, 

1 Randolph had a hearty hatred of slave traders, and it is 
said treated some of them quite roughly, who ventured to 
cheapen his " chattels personal." 



RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 245 

And at his side, a slave no more, 

His brother man stood weeping, 
His latest thought, his latest breath. 

To Freedom's duty giving, 
With failing tongue and trembling hand 

The dying blest the living. 

Oh! never bore his ancient Starter --*^„,. 

A truer son or braver! 
None trampling v^ith a calmer scorn 

On foreign hate or favor. 
He knew her faults, yet never stooped 

His proud and manly feeling 
To poor excuses of the wrong 



But none beheld with clearer eye 

The plague-spot o'er her spreading. 
None heard more sure the steps of Doom 

Along her future treading. 
For her as for himself he spake, 

When, his gaunt frame upbracing. 
He traced wdth dying hand " Remorse !" ^ 

And perished in the tracing. 

As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 
From Vernon's weeping willow. 

And from the grassy pall which hides 
The Sage of Monticello, 

1 See the remarkable statement of Dr. Parish, his medical 
attendant. 



246 MISCELLANEOUS. 

So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 

Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, 
Virginia! o'er thy land of slaves 

A warning voice is swelling! 

And hark ! from thy deserted fields 

Are sadder warnings spoken, 
From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons 

Their household gods have broken. 
The curse is on thee — wolves for men. 

And briars for corn-sheaves giving! 
Oh! more than all thy dead renown 

Were now one hero living! 

1847. 



DEMOCRACY. 

[" All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to 
you, do ye even so to them." — Matthew vii. 12.] 

Bearer of Freedom's holy light, 
Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod, 

The foe of all which pains the light, 
Or wounds the generous ear of God! 



Beautiful yet thy temples rise. 

Though there profaning gifts are thrown ; 
And fires unkindled of the skies 

Are glaring round thy altar-stone. 



DEMOCRACY. 247 

Still sacred — though thy name be breathed 
By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; 

And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed 
Around the haughty brows of Pride. 

O, ideal of my boyhood's time! 

The faith in which my father stood, 
Even when the sons of Lust and Crime 

Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood ! 

Still to those courts my footsteps turn, 

For through the mists which darken there, 

I see the flame of Freedom burn — 
The Kebla of the patriot's prayer! 

The generous feeling, pure and warm, 
Which owns the rights of all divine — 

The pitying heart — the helping arm — 
The prompt self-sacrifice — are thine. 

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye. 

How fade the lines of caste and birth! 

How equal in their suffering lie 
The groaning multitudes of earth! 

Still to a stricken brother true. 

Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 

As stooped to heal the wounded Jew 
The worshipper of Gerizim. 



248 MISCELLANE O US. 

By misery unrepelledy unawed 

By pomp or power^ thou seest a Man 

In prince or peasant — slave or lord — 
Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. 



Through all disguise, form, place, or name^ 
Beneath the flaunting robes of sin, 

Through poverty and squalid shame, 
Thou lookest on the man within. 



On man, as man, retaining yet, 

Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim, 

The crown upon his forehead set — 
The immortal sift of God to him. 



And there is reverence in thy look ; 

For that frail form which mortals wear 
The Spirit of the Holiest took. 

And veiled His perfect brightness there. 

Not from the shallow babbling fount 

Of vain philosophy thou art ; 
He who of old on Syria's mount 

Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart, 

In holy words which cannot die, 

In thoughts which angels leaned to know, 

Proclaimed thy message from on high — 
Thy mission to a world of woe. 



TO RONGE. 249 

That voice's echo hath not died! 

From the bkie lake of Galilee, 
And Tabor's lonely mountain side, 

It calls a struggling world to thee. 

Thy name and watchword o'er this land 
I hear in every breeze that stirs, 

And round a thousand altars stand 
Thy banded party worshippers. 

Not to these altars of a day. 
At party's call, my gift I bring ; 

But on thy olden shrine I lay 
A freeman's dearest offering : — 

The voiceless utterance of his will — 

His pledge to Freedom and to Truth, 
That manhood's heart remembers still 
The homage of his generous youth. 
Election Day^ 1843. 



TO RONGE. 

Strike home, strong-hearted man! Down to the 

root 
Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. 
Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then 
Put nerve into thy task. Let other men 
Plant, as they may, that better tree, whose fruit 
The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. 
Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows 
Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand, 



250 MISCELLANEOUS. 

On crown or crosier, which shall interpose 
Between thee and the weal of Father-land. 
Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all, 
Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall 
Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk 
Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk. 
Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear 
The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear 
Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light 
Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night. 
Be faithful to both worlds ; nor think to feed 
Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed. 
Servant of Him whose mission high and holy 
Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly, 
Thrust not His Eden promise from our sphere, 
Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span ; 
Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here, — 
The New Jerusalem comes down to man! 
Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, 
When the roused Teuton dashes from his limb 
The rusted chain of ages, help to bind 
His hands, for whom thou claim'st the freedom of 

the mind! 
1846. 



CHALK LEY HALL. 2$ I 



CHALKLEY HALL.i 

How bland and sweet the greeting of this breeze 

To him who flies 
From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, 
Till far behind him like a hideous dream 

The close dark city lies ! — 

Here, while the market murmurs, while men throng 

The marble floor 
Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din 
Of the world's madness let me gather in 

My better thoughts once more. 

Oh ! once again revive, while on my ear 

The cry of Gain 
And low hoarse hum of Traffic dies away, 
Ye blessed memories of my early day 

Like sere grass wet with rain! — 

1 Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of 
Thomas Chalkley, an eminent minister of the " Friends" 
denomination. He was one of the early settlers of the Colony, 
and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a 
quaint but beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and 
simple goodness. He was the master of a merchant vessel, 
and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Britain, omitted 
no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his 
fellow-men. During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, 
in the summer of 1838, the quiet and beautiful scenery around 
the ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted me from 
the heat and bustle of the city. 



252 MIS CELL A ATE O US. 

Once more let God's green earth and sunset air 

Old feelings waken ; 
Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, 
Oh, let me feel that my good angel still 

Hath not his trust forsaken. 

And w'ell do time and place befit my mood : 

Beneath the arms 
Of this embracing wood, a good man made 
His home, like Abraham resting in the shade 

Of Mamre's lonely palms. 

Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, 

The virgin soil 
Turned from the share he guided, and in rain 
And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain 

Which blessed his honest toil. 

Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas. 

Weary and worn. 
He came to meet his children, and to bless 
The Giver of all good in thankfulness 

And praise for his return. 

And here his neighbors gathered in to greet 

Their friend again, 
Safe from the wave and the destroying gales, 
Wliich reap untimely green Bermuda's vales, 

And vex the Carib main. 

To hear the good man tell of simple truth. 

Sown in an hour 
Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle, 



CHALK LEY LLALL. 253 

From the parched bosom of a barren soil, 
Raised up in life and power : 

How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, 

A tendering love 
Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, 
And words of fitness to his lips were given, 

And strength as from above : 

How the sad captive listened to the Word, 

Until his chain 
Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt 
The healing balm of consolation melt 

Upon its life-long pain : 

How the armed warrior sate him down to hear 

Of Peace and Truth, 
And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, 
Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, 

And fair and bright-eyed youth. 

Oh, far away beneath New England's sky, 

Even when a boy, 
Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore, 
His simple record I have pondered o'er 

With deep and quiet joy. 

And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm — 

Its woods around, 
Its still stream winding on in light and shade, 
Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade — 

To me is holy ground. 



254 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps 

His vigils still ; 
Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, 
Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, 

Or VirgiPs laurelled hill. 

To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete, 

To Juliet's urn, 
Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange grove, 
Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love 

Like brother pilgrims turn. 

But here a deeper and serener charm 

To all is given ; 
And blessed memories of the faithful dead 
O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed 

The holy hues of Heaven! 

1843. 



TO JOHN PIERPONT. 

Not as a poor requital of the joy 

With which my childhood heard that lay of thine. 
Which, like an echo of the song divine 
At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, 

Bore to my ear the airs of Palestine, — 
Not to the poet, but the man I bring 
In friendship's fearless trust my offering : 
How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, 
Yet well I know that thou hast deemed with me 



THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. 255 

Life all too earnest, and its time too short 
For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport ; 

And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, 
Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought 

The broken walls of Zion, even thy song 
Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought! 

1843. _^o-_ 

THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. 

[Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the four- 
teenth century, speaks of a Cypress tree in Ceylon, universally 
held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall 
only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find 
and eat one of them, was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. 
The traveller saw several venerable JOGEES, or saints, sitting 
silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the fall- 
ing of a leaf] 

They sat in silent watchfulness 

The sacred cypress tree about, 
And, from beneath old wrinkled brows 

Their failing eyes looked out. 

Gray Age and Sickness waiting there 

Through weary night and lingering day — 

Grim as the idols at their side 
And motionless as they. 

Unheeded in the boughs above 

The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ; 

Unseen of them the island flowers 
Bloomed brightly at their feet. 



256 MIS CELLANE O US. 

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, 
The thunder crashed on rock and hill ; 

The cloud-fire on their eye-balls blazed, 
Yet there they waited still ! 

What was the world without to them? 

The Moslem's sunset call — the dance 
Of Ceylon's maids — the passing gleam 

Of battle-flag and lance ? 

They waited for that falling leaf, 

Of which the wandering Jogees sing : 

Which lends once more to wintry age 
The greenness of its spring. 

Oh ! — if these poor and blinded ones 
In trustful patience wait to feel 

O'er torpid pulse and failing limb 
A youthful freshness steal ; 

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree, 
Whose healing leaves of life are shed 

In answer to the breath of prayer 
Upon the waiting head : 

Not to restore our failing forms, 

And build the spirit's broken shrine, 

But, on the fainting soul to shed 
A light and life divine : 

Shall we grow weary in our watch, 
And murmur at the long delay ? 

Impatient of our Father's time 
And His appointed way? 



THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON. 257 

Or, shall the stir of outward things 
Allure and claim the Christian's eye, 

When on the heathen watcher's ear 
Their powerless murmurs die ? 

Alas! a deeper test of faith 

Than prison cell or martyr's stake, 

The self-abasing watchfulness 
Of silent prayer may make. 

We gird us bravely to rebuke 

Our erring brother in the wrong : 
And in the ear of Pride and Power 

Our warning voice is strong. 

Easier to smite with Peter's sword, 

Than '^ watch one hour " in humbling prayer: 

Life's " great things," like the Syrian lord 
Our hearts can do and dare. 

But oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, 
From waters which alone can save : 

And murmur for Abana's banks 
And Pharpar's brighter wave. 

Oh, Thou, who in the garden's shade 
Didst wake Thy weary ones again, 

Who slumbered at that fearful hour 
Forgetful of Thy pain ; 

Bend o'er us now, as over them, 

And set our sleep-bound spirits free. 

Nor leave us slumbering in the watch 
Our souls should keep with Thee! 

1841. 



258 MISCELLANEOUS. 



A DREAM OF SUMMER. 

Bland as the morning breath of June 

The southwest breezes play ; 
And, through its haze, the winter noon 

Seems warm as summer's day. 
The snow-plumed Angel of the North 

Has dropped his icy spear ; 
Again the mossy earth looks forth, 

Again the streams gush clear. 

The fox his hillside cell forsakes, 

The muskrat leaves his nook. 
The bluebird in the meadow brakes 

Is singing with the brook. 
" Bear up, oh mother Nature! " cry 

Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; 
" Our winter voices prophesy 

Of summer days to thee! " 

So, in those winters of the soul, 

By bitter blasts and drear 
O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole, 

Will sunny days appear. 
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show 

The soul its living powers, 
And how beneath the winter's snow 

Lie germs of summer flowers 1 



TO . 259 

The Night is mother of the Day, 

The Winter of the Spring, 
And ever upon old Decay 

The greenest mosses chng. 
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, 

Through showers the sunbeams fall ; 
For God, who loveth all His works, 

Has left His Hope with all! 
4/// \st month, 1847. 



TO , 

With a Copy of Woolman's Journal. 1 

Maiden! with the fair brown tresses 

"Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, 
Floating on thy thoughtful forehead 

Cloud wreaths of its sky. 

Youthful years and maiden beauty, 
Joy with them should still abide — 

Instinct take the place of Duty — 
Love, not Reason, guide. 

Ever in the New rejoicing. 

Kindly beckoning back the Old, 

Turning, with a power like Midas, 
All things into gold. 

2 " Get the writings of John Woolman by \\&Qx\y— Essays 
of Eli a. 



260 MISCELLANE O US. 

And the passing shades of sadness 
Wearing even a welcome guise, 

As when some bright lake lies open 
To the sunny skies ; 

Every wing of bird above it, 
Every light cloud floating on, 

Glitters like that flashing mirror 
In the self-same sun. 

But upon thy youthful forehead 
Something like a shadow lies ; 

And a serious soul is looking 
From thy earnest eyes. 

With an early introversion, 

Through the forms of outward things. 
Seeking for the subtle essence, 

And the hidden springs. 

Deeper than the gilded surface 
Hath thy wakeful vision seen. 

Farther than the narrow present 
Have thy journeyings been. 

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises 
Heard the solemn steps of Time, 

And the low mysterious voices 
Of another clime. 

All the mystery of Being 

Hath upon thy spirit pressed — 

Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, 
Find no place of rest : 



TO . 261 

That which mystic Plato pondered, 
That which Zeno heard with awe, 

And the star-rapt Zoroaster 
In his night-watch saw. 

From the doubt and darkness springing 

Of the dim, uncertain Past, 
Moving to the dark still shadows 

O'er the Future cast. 

Early hath Life's mighty question 
Thrilled within thy heart of youth 

With a deep and strong beseeching : 
What and where is Truth ? 

Hollow creed and ceremonial. 

Whence the ancient life hath fled, 

Idle faith unknown to action. 
Dull and cold and dead. 

Oracles, whose wire-worked meanings 

Only wake a quiet scorn, — 
Not from these thy seeking spirit 

Hath its answer drawn. 

But, like some tired child at even. 

On thy mother Nature's breast, 
Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking 

Truth, and peace, and rest. 

O'er that mother's rugged features 
Thou art throwing Fancy's veil. 

Light and soft as woven moonbeams, 
Beautiful and frail! 



262 MISCELLANEOUS. 

O'er the rough chart of Existence, 
Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, 

Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, 
And cool fountains flow. 

And to thee an answer cometh 
From the earth and from the sky, 

And to thee the hills and waters 
And the stars reply. 

But a soul-sufficing answer 

Hath no outward origin ; 
More than Nature's many voices 

May be heard within. 

Even as the great Augustine 

Questioned earth and sea and sky,i 

And the dusty tomes of learning 
And old poesy. 

But his earnest spirit needed 

More than outward Nature taught — 

More than blest the poet's vision 
Or the sage's thought. 

Only in the gathered silence 

Of a calm and waiting frame 
Light and wisdom as from Heaven 

To the seeker came. 

1 August. Sililoq. cap. xxxi., " Interrogavi Terrain," etc. 



TO . 263 

Not to ease and aimless quiet 

Doth that inward answer tend, 
But to works of love and duty 

As our being's end, — 

Not to idle dreams and trances, 
Length of face, and solemn tone^ 

But to Faith, in daily striving 
And performance shown. 

Earnest toil and strong endeavor 

Of a spirit which within 
Wrestles with familiar evil 

And besetting sin ; 

And without, with tireless vigor. 
Steady heart, and weapon strong, 

In the power of truth assailing 
Every form of wrong. 

Guided thus, how passing lovely 

Is the track of Woolman's feet ! 
And his brief and simple record 

How serenely sweet! 

O'er life's humblest duties throwing 

Light the earthling never knew. 
Freshening all its dark waste places 

As with Hermon's dew. 

All which glows in Pascal's pages — 
All which sainted Guion sought. 

Or the blue-eyed German Rahel 
Half-unconscious taught : — 



264 MISCELLANE O US. 

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, 
Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed 

Living warmth and starry brightness 
Round that poor man's head. 

Not a vain and cold ideal, 

Not a poet's dream alone. 
But a presence warm and real, 

Seen and felt and known. 

When the red right hand of slaughter 
Moulders with the steel it swung, 

When the name of seer and pQet 
Dies on Memory's tongue. 

All bright thoughts and pure shall gather 
Round that meek and suffering one — 

Glorious, like the seer-seen angel 
Standing in the sun! 

Take the good man's book and ponder 
What its pages say to thee — 

Blessed as the hand of healing 
May its lesson be. 

If it only serves to strengthen 
Yearnings for a higher good, 

For the fount of living waters 
And diviner food ; 

If the pride of human reason 
Feels its meek and still rebuke. 

Quailing like the eye of Peter 
From the Just One's look! — 



1840. 



LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. 265 

If with readier ear thou heedest 

What the Inward Teacher saith, 
Listening with a wilhng spirit 

And a child-like faith, — 

Thou mayest live to bless the giver. 

Who himself but frail and weak, 
Would at least the highest welfare 

Of another seek ; 

And his gift, though poor and lowly- 
It may seem to other eyes, 

Yet may prove an angel holy 
In a pilgrim's guise. 



LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. 

" Ye build the tombs of the prophets." — HOLY WRIT. 

Yes — pile the marble o'er him! It is well 

That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, 
And planted in the pathway of his life 

The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, 
Who clamored down the bold reformer when 
He pleaded for his captive fellow-men. 

Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought 
Within thy w^alls, St. Tammany, to bind 

In party chains the free and honest thought, 
The angel utterance of an upright mind, — 

Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise 

The stony tribute of your tardy praise. 

For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame 

Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame! 
1841. 



266 MISCELLANEOUS^. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

[A LETTER-WRITER from Mexico states that, at the terr.ble 
fight of Buena Vista, Mexican women were seen hovering 
near the field of death, for the purpose of giving aid and 
succor to the wounded. One poor woman was found sur- 
rounded by the maimed and suffering of both armies, mini;,ter- 
ing to the wants of AMERICANS as well as Mexicans, with 
impartial tenderness.] 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward 

far away, 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican 

array, 
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or 

come they near? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the 

storm we hear. 

" Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of 

battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy 

on their souls! " 
Who is losing? who is winning? — "Over hill and 

over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the 

mountain rain." 

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, 

look once more : 
^' Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as 

before. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 267 

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, 

foot and horse, 
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down 

its mountain course.'" 

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke 

has rolled away ; 
And I see ^the Northern rifles gleaming down the 

ranks of gray. 
Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop 

of Minon wheels ; 
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon 

at their heels. 

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now 

advance ! 
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's 

charging lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and 

foot together fall ; 
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them , 

plough the Northern ball.'" 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and 

frightful on : 
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and 

who has won? 
" Alas ! ala? ! I know not ; friend and foe together 

fall, 
O'er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, for 

them all!'' 



268 MISCELLANE O US. 

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, 

save my brain! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from 

heaps of slain. 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they 

fall, and strive to rise ; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die 



" Oh my heart's love ! oh my dear one ! lay thy poor 

head on my knee ; 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou 

hear me? canst thou see? 
Oh, my husband, brave and gentle! oh, my Bernal, 

look once more 
On the blessed cross before thee! mercy! mercy! all 

is o'er! " 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one 

down to rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon 

his breast ; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral 

masses said ; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy 

aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a 

soldier lay. 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding 

slow his life away ; 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 269 

But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena 

knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol 

belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away 

her head ; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon 

her dead ; 
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his 

struggling breath of pain, 
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips 

again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand 
and faintly smiled : 

Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch 
beside her child ? 

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's 
heart supplied ; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" mur- 
mured he, and died! 

" A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee 

forth, 
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, 

in the North!" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him 

with her dead, 
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds 

which bled. 



270 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud 

before the wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood 

and death behind ; 
Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the 

wounded strive ; 
Hide your faces, holy angels! oh, thou Christ of 



Sink, oh Night, among thy Mountains! let the cool, 

gray shadows fall ; 
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain 

over all! 
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart 

the battle rolled. 
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips 

grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued. 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and 

faint and lacking food ; 
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care 

they hung, 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange 

and Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, oh Father! is this evil world of ours ; 
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh 

the Eden flowers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle. Love and Pity 

send their prayer. 
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our 

air! 
1847. 



FOR GI VENESS. 2 J I 



FORGIVENESS. 

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been 

Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; 

So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 

The green mounds of the village burial place ; 
Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
Find one sad level — and how, soon or late, 

Wronged and wrong-doer, each with meekened face. 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 

Pass the green threshold of our common grave. 
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart. 

Awed for myself, and pitying my race. 

Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 

Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave! 

1846. 



BARCLAY OF URY. 

[Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of FRIENDS, 
in Scotland, was BARCLAY, of Ury, an old and distinguished 
soldier, who had fought under GUSTAVUS Adolphus, in Ger- 
many. As a Quaker, he became the object of persecution and 
abuse at the hands of the magistrates and the populace. None 
bore the indignities of the mob with greater patience and 
nobleness of soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. 
One of his friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, 
lamented that he should be treated so harshly in his old age, 
who had been so honored before. " I find more satisfaction," 
said Barclay, " as well as honor, in being thus insulted for 



2/2 MISCELLANEOUS. 

my religious principles, than when, a few years ago, it was 
usual for the magistrates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to 
meet me on the road and conduct me to public entertainment 
in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my favor."] 

Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green. 

Rode the Laird of Ury ; 
Close behind him, close beside, 
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 

Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the dmnken churl, 
Jeered at him the serving girl. 

Prompt to please her master ; 
And the begging carlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 

Cursed him as he passed her." 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 

Came he slowly riding ; 
And, to all he saw and heard 
Answering not with bitter word, 

Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 

Loose and free and froward ; 
Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! 
Push him! prick him! through the town 

Drive the Quaker coward! " 



BARCLAY OF URY. 273 

But from out the thickening crowd 
Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

" Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " 
And the old man at his side, 
Saw a comrade, battle tried, 

Scarred and sunburned darkly ; 

Who with ready weapon bare, 
Fronting to the troopers there, 

Cried aloud : " God save us ! 
Call ye coward him who stood 
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood, 

With the brave Gustavus ? " 

"Nay, I do not need thy sword, 
Comrade mine,'' said Ury's lord ; 

" Put it up I pray thee : 
Passive to His holy will. 
Trust I in my Master still. 

Even though He slay me. 

" Pledges of thy love and faith, 
Proved on many a field of death, 

Not by me are needed." 
Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old, 

Now so meekly pleaded. 

" Woe's the day," he sadly said, 
With a slowly shaking head. 
And a look of pity ; 



2 74 MISCELLANE US. 

" Ury's honest lord reviled, 
Mock of knave and sport of child, 
In his own good city! 

"Speak the word, and, master mine. 
As we charged on Tilly's line. 

And his Walloon lancers, 
Smiting through their midst we'll teach 
Civil look and decent speech 

To these boyish prancers! " 

" Marvel not, mine ancient friend. 
Like beginning, like the end : " 

Quoth the Laird of Ury, 
" Is the sinful servant more 
Than his gracious Lord who bore 

Bonds and stripes in Jewry? 

" Give me joy that in His name 
I can bear, with patient frame, 
All these vain ones offer ; 



Scoffing with the scoffer? 

" Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 

With few friends to greet me, 
Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads, to meet me. 



BARCLAY OF URY. 

" When each good wife, o'er and o'er, 
Blessed me as I passed her door ; 

And the snooded daughter, 
Through her casement glancing down, 
Smiled on him who bore renown 

From red fields of slaughter. 

" Hard to feel the stranger's scoiT, 
Hard the old friend's falling off, 

Hard to learn forgiving : 
But the Lord His own rewards, 
And His love with theirs accords, 

Warm and fresh and living. 

" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking ; 
Knowing God's own time is best, 
In a patient hope I rest 

For the full day-breaking ! " 

So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
Where, through iron grates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen! 

Not in vain. Confessor old. 
Unto us the tale is told 
Of thy day of trial ; 



275 



2/6 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Every age on him, who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways, 
Pours its seven-fold vial. 

Happy he whose inward ear 
Angel comfortings can hear, 

O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
And, while Hatred's fagots burn, 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

Knowing this, that never yet 
Share of Truth was v^ainly set 

In the world's wide fallow ; 
After hands shall sow the seed. 
After hands from hill and mead 

Reap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow ; 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain. 
And, on midnight's sky of rain. 

Paint the golden morrow! 

1847. 



WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 

Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, 

" Lord ! " I cried in sudden ire, 
" From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, 

Shake the bolted fire! 



WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 2// 

" Love is lost, and Faith is dying ; 
With the brute the man is sold ; 
And the dropping blood of labor 



" Here the dying wail of Famine, 
There the battle's groan of pain ; 

And, in silence, smooth-faced Mammon 
Reaping men like grain. 

"'Where is God, that we should fear Him?^ 
Thus the earth-born Titans say ; 

' God ! if thou art living, hear us ! ' 
Thus the weak ones pray. 

" Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding," 

Spake a solemn Voice within ; 
" Weary of our Lord's forbearance, 

Art thou free from sin? 

"Fearless brow to Him uphfting, 
Canst thou for His thunders call. 

Knowing that to guilt's attraction 
Evermore they fall? 

" Know'st thou not all germs of evil 

In thy heart await their time? 
Not thyself, but God's restraining. 

Stays their growth of crime. 

"Could'st thou boast, oh child of weakness! 

O'er the sons of wrong and strife, 
Were their strong temptations planted 

In thy path of life? 



2 y8 MIS CELLANE O US. 

" Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing 
From one fountain, clear and free, 

But by widely varying channels 
Searching for the sea. 

" Glideth one through greenest valleys, 
Kissing them with lips still sweet ; 

One, mad roaring down the mountains. 
Stagnates at their feet. 

" Is it choice whereby the Parsee 
Kneels before his mother's fire? 

In his black tent did the Tartar 
Choose his w^ondering sire ? 

" He alone, whose hand is bounding 
Human power and human will, 

Looking through each souPs surrounding, 
Knows its good or ill. 

" For thyself, while wrong and sorrow 
Make to thee their strong appeal. 

Coward wert thou not to utter 
What the heart must feel. 

'■'■ Earnest words must needs be spoken 
When the warm heart bleeds or burns 

With its scorn of wrong, or pity 
For the wronged, by turns. 

" But, by all thy nature's weakness, 
Hidden faults and follies known, 

Be thou, in rebuking evil. 
Conscious of thine own. 



TO DELAWARE. 2/9 

" Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty 

To thy lips her trumpet set, 
But with harsher blasts shall mingle 

Wailings of regret." 

Cease not, Voice of holy speaking, 

Teacher sent of God, be near, 
Whispering through the day's cool silence, 

Let my spirit hear! 

So, when thoughts of evil doers 

Waken scorn or hatred move, 
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling 

Temper all with love. 



1847. 



TO DELAWARE. 

Written during the Discussion, in the Legislature of that 
State in the Winter of 1846-47, of a Bill for the Abolition of 
Slavery. 

Thrice welcome to thy sisters of the East, 

To the strong tillers of a rugged home, 
With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released, 

And hardy feet o'er-swept by ocean's foam ; 
And to the young nymphs of the golden West, 

Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie bloom, 
Trail in the sunset, — oh, redeemed and blest. 

To the warm welcome of thy sisters come! 
Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail-white bay 



2 8o MISCELLANE O US. 

Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains, 
And the great lakes, where echoes free alway 

Moaned never shoreward with the clank of chains, 
Shall weave new sun-bows in their tossing spray, 
And all their waves keep grateful holiday. 
And, smiling on thee through her mountain rains, 

Vermont shall bless thee ; and the Granite peaks, 
And vast Katahdin o'er his woods, shall wear 
Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold keen air ; 

And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks 
Cerrun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, 

When, at thy bidding, the electric wire 

Shall tremble northward with its words of fire : 
Glory and praise to God! another State is free! 

1847. 



WORSHIP. 

[ " Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father 
is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, 
and to keep himself unspotted from the world." — James i. 27.] 

The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken. 
And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan 

Round fane and altar overthrown and broken, 
O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. 

Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places. 
The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood. 

With mothers' offering, to the Fiend's embraces. 
Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. 



WORSHIP. 281 

Red altars, kindling through that night of error, 
Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye 

Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, 
Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky ; 

Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcasting 
All heaven above, and blighting earth below% 

The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting, 
And man's oblation was his fear and woe ! 

Then through great temples swelled the dismal 
moaning 

Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer ; 
Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, 

Swung their white censers in the burdened air : 

As if the pomp of rituals, and the savor 

Of gums and spices, could the Unseen One please ; 
As if His ear could bend, with childish favor, 

To the poor flattery of the organ keys ! 

Feet red from war fields trod the church aisles holy, 
With trembling reverence ; and the oppressor 
there, 

Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly. 

Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of prayer. 

Not such the service the benignant Father 
Requireth at His earthly children's hands : 

Not the poor offering of vain rites, but rather 
The simple duty man from man demands. 



282 MISCELLANE O US. 

For Earth he asks it : the full joy of Heaven 
Knoweth no change of waning or increase ; 

The great heart of the Infinite beats even, 
Untroubled flows the river of His peace. 

He asks no taper lights, on high surrounding 
The priestly altar and the saintly grave. 

No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, 
Nor incense clouding up the twilight nave. 



For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spoken : 
The holier worship which he deigns to bless 

Restores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, 
And feeds the widow and the fatherless! 



Types of our human weakness and our sorrow ! 

Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead? 
Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrow 

From stranger eyes the home lights which have 
fled? 

Oh, brother man ! fold to thy heart thy brother ; 

Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there ; 
To worship rightly is to love each other. 

Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer. 

Follow with reverent steps the great example 
Of Him whose holy work was ''• doing good '' ; 

So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, 
Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. 



THE ALBUM. 283 

Then shall all shackles fall ; the stormy clangor 
Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease ; 

Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, 
And in its ashes plant the tree of peace! 

1848. 



THE ALBUM. 

The dark-eyed daughters of the Sun, 

At morn and evening hours, 
O'er-hung their graceful shrines alone 

With wreaths of dewy flowers. 

Not vainly did those fair ones cull 
Their gifts by stream and wood ; 

The Good is always beautiful, 
The Beautiful is good! 

We live not in their simple day. 

Our Northern blood is cold, 
And few the offerings which we lay 

On other shrines than Gold. 

With Scripture texts to chill and ban 
The heart's fresh morning hours. 

The heavy-footed Puritan 

Goes trampling down the flowers ; 

Nor thinks of Him who sat of old 

Where Syrian lilies grew, 
And from their mingling shade and gold 



A holy lesson drew, 



284 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yet lady, shall this book of thine, 
Where Love his gifts has brought, 

Become to thee a Persian shrine, 
O'er-hung with flowers of thought. 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 

The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, 
And eats his meat and drinks his ale, 

And beats the maid with her unused broom, 
And the lazy lout with his idle flail. 

But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn. 

And hies him away ere the break of dawn. 

The shade of Denmark fled from the sun, 

And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer, 

The Fiend of Faust was a faithful one, 
Agrippa's demon wrought in fear. 

And the devil of Martin Luther sat 

By the stout monk's side in social chat. 

The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him 

Who seven times crossed the deep, 
Twined closely each lean and withered limb. 

Like the nightmare in one's sleep. 
But he drank of the wine, and Sinbad cast 
The evil weight from his back at last. 

But the demon that cometh day by day 
To my quiet room and fire-side nook, 
Where the casement light falls dim and gray 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 285 

On faded painting and ancient book, 
Is a sorrier one than any whose names 
Are chronicled well by good king James. 

No bearer of burdens like Caliban, 

No runner of errands like Ariel, 
He comes in the shape of a fat old man. 

Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell : 
And whence he comes, or whither he goes, 
I know as I do of the wind which blows. 

A stout old man with a greasy hat 

Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose, 
And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, 

Looking through glasses with iron bows 
Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can. 
Guard well your doors from that old man! 

He comes with a careless " how d'ye do," 
And seats himself in my elbow chair ; 

And my morning paper and pamphlet new 
f'all forthwith under his special care, 

And he wipes his glasses and clears his throat. 

And, button by button, unfolds his coat. 

And then he reads from paper and book. 

In a low and husky asthmatic tone. 
With the stolid sameness of posture and look 

Of one who reads to himself alone ; 
And hour after hour on my senses come 
That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. 



2 86 MISCELLANE O US. 

The price of stocks, the auction sales, 
The poet's song and the lover's glee. 

The horrible murders, the seaboard gales, 
The marriage list, and the/<?/^ cVespt'it, 

All reach my ear in the self-same tone, — 

I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on! 

Oh ! sweet as the lapse of water at noon 
O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree. 

The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, 
Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlit sea, 

Or the low soft music, perchance which seems 

To float through the slumbering singer's dreams. 

So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone 

Of her in whose features I sometimes look, 

As I sit at eve by her side alone, 

And W'C read by turns from the self-same book — 

Some tale perhaps of the olden time, 

Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. 

Then when the story is one of woe, — 

Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar. 

Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low 
Her voice sinks down like a moan afar; 

And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, 

And his face looks on me worn and pale. 

And when she reads some merrier song, 

Her voice is glad as an April bird's, 
And w^hen the tale is of war and wrong. 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 287 

A trumpefs summons is in her words, 
And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, 
And see the tossing of plume and spear! — 

Oh, pity me then, when, day by day, 

The stout fiend darkens my parlor door ; 

And reads me perchance the self-same lay 
Which melted in music the night before, 

From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet. 

And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet! 

I cross my floor with a nervous tread, 
I whistle and laugh and sing and shout,, 

I flourish my cane above his head. 
And stir up the fire to roast him out ; 

I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane, 

And press my hands on my ears, in vain! 

IVe studied Glfnville and James the wise. 
And wizard black-letter tomes which treat 

Of demons of every name and size, 

Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, 

But never a hint and never a line 

Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. 

Fve crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, 
And laid the Primer above them all, 

I've nailed a horse-shoe over the grate, 
And hung a wig to my parlor wall 

Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, 

At Salem court in the witchcraft day ! 



2 88 MISCELLANE US. 

" Conjuro te, sceleratissime, 

Abire ad tuuni lociun ! " — still 
Like a visible nightmare he sits by me — 

The exorcism has lost its skill ; 
And I hear again in my haunted room 
The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum ! 

Ah ! — commend me to Mary Magdalen 

With her seven-fold plagues — to the wandering 
Jew, 
To the terrors which haunted Orestes when 

The furies his midnight curtains drew, 
But charm him off, ye who charm him can, 
That reaciing demon, that fat old man ! 

1835. 



THE PUMPKIN^ 

Oh ! greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run. 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold. 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all 

gold, 
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew. 
While he waited to know that his warning was true, 
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 



THE PUMPKIN. 289 

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of 

gold; 
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, 
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit 

shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah ! — on Thanksgiving Day, from East and from 

West, 
From North and from South come the pilgrim and 

guest, 
When the gray -haired New Englander sees round 

his board 
The old broken links of affection restored. 
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once 

more, 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled 

before. 
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye ? 
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin 'pie ? 

Oh ! — fruit loved of boyhood ! — the old days re- 
calling. 

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts 
were falling ! 

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! 

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts 
all in tune, 

Our chair a broad pumpkin — our lantern the moon, 



290 MISCELLANE O US. 

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, 
In a pumpkin-shell-coach, with two rats for her 
team ! 

Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or 
better 

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! 

P^airer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than 
thine ! 

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to ex- 
press, 

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less ; 

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below. 

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine 
grow, 

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin Pie ! 
1844. 



EXTRACT FROM '' A NEW ENGLAND 
LEGEND." 



Even as a vision of the morning ! 
Its rights foredone — its guardians dead- 
Its priestesses, bereft of dread. 

Waking the veriest urchin's scorning ! 
Gone like the Indian wizard's yell 

And fire-dance round the magic rock, 



EXTRACT. 



291 



Forgotten like the Druid's spell 

At moonrise by his holy oak ! 
No more along the shadowy glen, 
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; 
No more the unquiet church-yard dead 
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, 

Startling the traveller, late and lone ; 
As, on some night of starless weather, 
They silently commune together, 

Each sitting on his own head-stone ! 
The roofless house, decayed, deserted. 
Its living tenants all departed. 
No longer rings with midnight revel 
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil ; 
No pale, blue flame sends out its flashes 
Through creviced roof and shattered sashes ! ■ 
The witch-grass round the hazel spring 
May sharply to the night-air sing. 
But there no more shall withered hags 
Refresh at ease their broom-stick nags, 
Or taste those hazel-shadowed w^aters 
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters ; 
No more their mimic tones be heard — 
The mew of cat — the chirp of bird, 
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter 
Of the fell demon following after ! 

The cautious good-man nails no more 
A horse-shoe on his outer door. 
Lest some unseemly hag should fit 
To his own mouth her bridle-bit — 
The good-wife's churn no more refuses 



292 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Its wonted culinary uses 

Until, with heated needle burned. 

The witch has to her place returned ! 

Our witches are no longer old 

And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, 

But young and gay and laughing creatures. 

With the heart's sunshine on their features 

Their sorcery — the light which dances 

Where the raised lid unveils its glances ; 

Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, 

The music of Love's twilight hours, 
Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan 

Above her nightly closing flowers, 
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore, 
Along the charmed Ausonian shore! 
Even she, our own weird heroine, 
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, 

Sleeps calmly w^here the living laid her ; 
And the wide realm of sorcery, 
Left by its latest mistress free. 

Hath found no gray and skilled invader : 
So perished Albion's " glammarye," 

With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, 
His charmed torch beside his knee. 
That even the dead himself might see 

The magic scroll within his keeping. 
And now our modern Yankee sees 
Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; 
And naught above, below, around, 
Of life or death, of sight or sound, 

Whate'er its nature, form, or look, 
Excites his terror or surprise — 



HAMPTON BEACH. 293 

All seeming to his knowing eyes 
Familiar as his ^' catechise," 
Or "Webster's Spelling Book."" 

1833- ^^ 

HAMPTON BEACH. 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 

Where, miles away. 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light. 
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy 
gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the Sea! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree, 
Still as a picture, clear and free, 
With varying outline mark the coast for miles 
around. 

On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 

Our seaward way. 
Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain, 
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane. 
And bends above our heads the flowering locust 
spray. 

Ha! like a kind hand on my brow 
Comes this fresh breeze. 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow, 
While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life — the healing of the seas! 



294 MISCELLANE US. 

Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ankles greenly round 
With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool 
spray wet. 

Good-by to Pain and Care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day ; 
Here where these sunny waters break, 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. 

I draw a freer breath — I seem 

Like all I see — 
Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 
And far-off sails which flit before the South-wind 
free. 

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder, 

The soul may know 
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder. 
Nor sink the weight of mystery under, 
But with the upward rise, and with the vastness 
grow. 

And all we shrink from now may seem 

No new revealing ; 
Familiar as our childhood^s stream 
Or pleasant memory of a dream. 
The loved and cherished Past upon the new life 
stealino;. 



HAMPTON BEACH. 295 

Serene and mild the untried light 

May have its dawning ; 
And, as in Summer's northern night 
The evening and the dawn unite, 
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new 



I sit alone : in foam and spray 

Wave after wave 
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray. 
Beneath like fallen Titans lay, 
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft 
and cave. 

What heed 1 of the dusty land 

And noisy town ? 
I see the mighty deep expand 
From its white line of glimmering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts 
down! 

In listless quietude of mind, 

I yield to all 
The change of cloud and wave and wind, 
And passive on the flood reclined, 
I wander with the waves, and with them rise and 
fall. 

But look, thou dreamer! — wave and shore 

In shadow lie ; 
The night-wind warns me back once more 
To where my native hill-tops o'er 
Bends like an arch of fire the dowing sunset skv! 



2 96 MIS CELLANE O US. 

So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell! 

I bear with me 
No token stone nor glittering shell, 
But long and oft shall Memory tell 
Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea. 

1843. 



LINES, 

Written on Hearing of the Death of Silas Wright, 
OF New York. 

As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, 
While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone. 
Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone. 

So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, 

In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light 
Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon, 

While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight. 

And, day by day, within thy spirit grew 

A holier hope than young Ambition knev/. 

As through thy rural quiet, not in vain. 

Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, 
Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon! 

Portents at which the bravest stand aghast — 

The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast. 
Alarm the land ; yet thou, so wise and strong, 

Suddenly summoned to the burial bed. 

Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, 

Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. 

Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host? 

Who wear the mantle of the leader lost? 



LINES. 297 

Who stay the march of slavery? He. whose voice 
Hath called thee from thy task-field, shall not lack 
Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back 
The wrong which, through His poor ones, reaches 

Him : 
Vet firmer hands shall Freedom's torch-hghts trim, 

And wave them high across the abysmal black, 
Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and 
rejoice. 

\oth vio., 1847. 



LINES, 
Accompanying Manuscripts Presented to a Friend. 

'T IS said that in the Holy Land 

The angels of the place have blessed 

The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, 
Like Jacob's stone of rest. 

That down the hush of Syrian skies 

Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings 

The song whose holy symphonies 
Are beat by unseen wings ; 

Still starting from his sandy bed. 

The way-worn wanderer looks to see 

The halo of an angel's head 

Shine through the tamarisk tree. 

So through the shadows of my way 
Thv smile hath fallen soft and clear. 



298 MISCELLANEOUS. 

So at the weary close of day 
Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. 

That pilgrim pressing to his goal 
May pause not for the vision's sake, 

Yet all fair things within his soul 
The thought of it shall wake ; 

The graceful palm tree by the well, 

Seen on the far horizon's rim ; 
The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle, 

Bent timidly on him ; 

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair 

Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom 

Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, 
And loving Mary's tomb ; 

And thus each tint or shade which falls 
From sunset cloud or waving tree. 

Along my pilgrim path recalls 
The pleasant thought of thee. 

Of one, in sun and shade the same, 
In weal and woe my steady friend, 

Whatever by that holy name 
The angels comprehend. 

Not blind to faults and follies, thou 
Hast never failed the good to see, 

Nor judged by one unseemly bough 
The upward-struggling tree. 



LI.YES. 



299 



These light leaves at thy feet I lay — 

Poor common thoughts on common things, 

Which time is shaking, day by day, 
Like feathers from his wings — 



To nurturing care but little known, 
Their good was partly learned of thee, 
Their folly is my own. 

That tree still clasps the kindly mould. 
Its leaves still drink the twilight dew, 

And weaving its pale green with gold, 
Still shines the sunlight through. 

There still the morning zephyrs play, 
And there at times the spring bird sings. 

And mossy trunk and fading spray 
Are flowered with glossy wings. 

Yet, even in genial sun and rain. 

Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade ; 
The wanderer on its lonely plain 



Oh, friend beloved, whose curious skill 

Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, 

With warm, glad summer thoughts to fill 
The cold, dark, winter hours! 

Pressed on my heart, the leaves I bring 

May well defy the wintry cold. 
Until, in Heaven's eternal spring. 

Life's fairer ones unfold. 

1S47. 



300 MIS CELLANE US. 



THE REWARD. 

Who, looking backward from bis manhood's prime, 
Sees not the spectre of his misspent time? 

And, through the shade 
Of funeral cypress planted thick behind, 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 

From his loved dead? 

Who bears no trace of passion's evil force? 
Who shuns thy sting, oh terrible Remorse? — 

Who does not cast 
On the thronged pages of his memory's book. 
At times, a sad and half reluctant look. 

Regretful of the Past ? 



Alas! — the evil which we fain would shun 
We do, and leave the wished-for good undone : 

Our strength to-day 
Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall ; 
Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all 

Are we alway. 

Yet, who, thus looking backward o'er his years, 
•Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, 

If he hath been 
Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, 
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause. 

His fellow-men? 



RAPHAEL. 301 

If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin, — 

If he hath lent 
Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, 
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed 

Or home, hath bent, 

He has not lived in vain, and while he gives 
Tlie praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives, 

With thankful heart ; 
He gazes backward, and with hope before. 
Knowing that from his works he never more 

Can henceforth part. 

1848. 



RAPHAEL. 1 

I SHALL not soon forget that sight : 
The glow of Autumn's westering da}', 

A hazy warmth, a dreamy light. 
On Raphael's picture lay. 



It was a simple print I saw, 
The fair face of a musing boy ; 

Yet while I gazed a sense of awe 
Seemed blending with my joy. 



1 Suggested by a portrait of Raphael, at the age of fifteen, 
in the possession of Thomas Tracy, of Newburyport. 



302 MISCELLANE O US. 

A simple print : — the graceful flow 
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, 

And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow 
Unmarked and clear, were there. 



Yet through its sweet and calm repose 
I saw the inward spirit shine ; 

It was as if before me rose 
The white veil of a shrine. 



As if, as Gothland's sage has told, 
The hidden life, the man within. 

Dissevered from fts frame and mould, 
By mortal eye were seen. 



Was it the lifting of that eye, 

The waving of that pictured hand 

Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, 
I saw the walls expand. 



The narrow room had vanished, — space 
Broad, luminous, remained alone, 

Through which all hues and shapes of grace 
And beauty looked or shone. 

Around the mighty master came 

The marvels which his pencil wrought, 

Those miracles of power whose fame 
Is wide as human thought. 



RAPHAEL. 303 

There drooped thy more than mortal face, 

Oh Mother, beautiful and mild! 
Enfolding in one dear embrace 

Thy Saviour and Thy Child ! 



The rapt brow of the Desert John ; 

The awful glory of that day, 
When all the Father's brightness shone 

Through manhood's veil of clay. 

And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild 
Dark visions of the days of old, 

How sweetly woman's beauty smiled 
Through locks of brown and gold ! 



There Fornarina's fair young face 
Once more upon her lover shone, 

Whose model of an angel's grace 
He borrowed from her own. 



Slow passed that vision from my view. 
But not the lesson which it taught ; 

The soft, calm shadows which it threw 
Still rested on my thought : 

The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, 
Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, 

Plant for their deathless heritage 
The fruits and flowers of time. 



304 MISCELLANE O US. 

We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
Of which the coming life is made, 

And fill our Future's atmosphere 
With sunshine or with shade. 

The tissue of the Life to be 

We weave with colors all our own, 

And in the field of Destiny 
We reap as we have sown. 

Still shall the soul around it call 

The shadows which it gathered here 

And painted on the eternal wall 
The Past shall reappear. 

Think ye the notes of holy song 
On Milton's tuneful ear have died? 

Think ye that Raphael's angel throng 
Has vanished from his side? 

Oh no I — We live our life again : 
Or warmly touched or coldly dim 

The pictures of the Past remain, — 
Man's works shall follow him! 

1842. 



THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 305 



THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 

Ere down yon blue Carpathian hills 

The sun shall sink again! 
Farewell to life and all its ills, 

Farewell to cell and chain. 

These prison shades are dark and cold, — 

But, darker far than they, 
The shadow of a sorrow old 

Is on my heart alway. 

For since the day wdien Warkworth wood 

Closed o'er my steed and I, 
An alien from my name and blood, 

A weed cast out to die, — 

When, looking back in sunset light, 

I saw her turret gleam. 
And from its casement, far and white, 

Her sign of farewell stream. 

Like one who from some desert shore 
Doth home's green isles descry, 

And, vainly longing, gazes o'er 
The waste of wave and sky ; 

So from the desert of my fate 

I gaze across the past ; 
Forever on life's dial-plate 

The shade is backward cast! 



306 MISCELLANEOUS. 

I've wandered wide from shore to shore, 
I've knelt at many a shrine ; 

And bowed me to the rocky floor 
Where Bethlehem's tapers shine ; 

And by the Holy Sepulchre 

I've pledged my knightly sword 

To Christ, his blessed Church, and her; 
The Mother of our Lord. 



Oh, vain the vow, and vain the strife! 

How vain do all things seem ! 
My soul is in the past, and life 

To-day is but a dream ! 

In vain the penance strange and long, 
And hard for flesh to bear; 

The prayer, the fasting, and the thong, 
And sackcloth shirt of hair. 



The eyes of memory will not sleep. 

Its ears are open still ; 
And vigils with the past they keep 

Against my feeble will. 



And still the loves and joys of old 

Do evermore uprise ; 
I see the flow of locks of gold, 

The shine of loving eyes! 




When, looking ])ack in sunset light, 
I saw her turret gleam." 



THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 307 

Ah me! upon another's breast 

Those golden locks recline ; 
I see upon another rest 

The glance that once was mine! 

" O faithless Priest ! — O perjured knight ! '' 

I hear the Master cry ; 
'" Shut out the vision from thy sight, 

Let Earth and Nature die! 

" The Church of God is now thy spouse, 

And thou the bridegroom art ; 
Then let the burden of thy vows 

Crush down thy human heart!" 

In vain! This heart its grief must know. 

Till life itself hath ceased, 
And falls beneath the self-same blow, 

The lover and the priest! 

O pitying Mother ! souls of light, 

And saints, and martyrs old ! 
Pray for a weak and sinful knight, 

A suffering man uphold. 

Then let the Paynim work his will, 

And death unbind my chain. 
Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill 

The sun shall fall again. 

1843. 



308 MISCELLANE O US. 

AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 
From " Margaret Smith's Journal." 

Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers. 
And gone the Summer's pomp and shovvj 

And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, 
Is waiting for the Winter's snow. 

I said to Earth, so cold and gray, 
"An emblem of myself thou art : " 

" Not so," the Earth did seem to say, 

"For Spring shall warm my frozen heart." 

" I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams 

Of warmer sun and softer rain, 
And wait to hear the sound of streams 

And songs of merry birds again. 

" But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone, 
For whom the flowers no longer blow, 

Who standest blighted and forlorn. 
Like Autumn waiting for the snow : 

" No hope is thine of sunnier hours, 
Thy Winter shall no more depart ; 

No Spring revive thy wasted flowers. 
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.'" 

184Q. 



SONGS OF LABOR. 



DEDICATION. 

I WOULD the gift I offer here 

Might graces from thy favor take, 
And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, 
On softened lines and coloring, wear 
The unaccustomed light of beauty, for thy sake. 

Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain : 

But what I have I give to thee, — 
The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, 
And paler flowers, the latter rain 
Calls from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea. 

Above the fallen groves of green, 

Where youth's enchanted forest stood, 
The dry and wasting roots between, 
A sober after-growth is seen, 
As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple 
wood ! 

309 



310 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Yet birds will sing, and breezes play 

Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; 
And through the bleak and wintry day 
It keeps its steady green alway, — 
So even my after-thoughts may have a charm for 
thee. 



Art's perfect forms no moral need. 
And beauty is its own excuse ; ^ 
But for the dull and flowerless weed 
Some healing virtue still must plead, 
And the rough ore must find its honors in its use. 



So haply these, my simple lays 

Of homely toil, may serve to show 
The orchard bloom and tasselled maize 
That skirt and gladden duty's ways. 
The unsung beauty hid life's common things below ! 



Haply from them the toiler, bent 

Above his forge or plough, may gain 
A manlier spirit of content, 
And feel that life is wisest spent 
Where the strong working hand makes strong the 
working brain. 



1 For the idea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson, in 
his inimitable sonnet to the Rhodora : — 

" If eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being." 



THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 311 

The doom which to the guilty pair 
Without the walls of Eden came, 
Transforming sinless ease to care 
And rugged toil, no more shall bear 
The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. 

A blessing now — a curse no more ; 

Since He, whose name we breathe with awe. 
The coarse mechanic vesture wore, — 
A poor man toiling with the poor, 
In labor, as in prayer, fulfilling the same law. 

1850. 

THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 

The sky is ruddy in the East, 

The earth is gray below, 
And, spectral in the river-mist, 

The ship's white timbers show. 
Then let the sounds of measured stroke 

And grating saw begin ; 
The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, 

The mallet to the pin! 

Hark ! — roars the bellows, blast on blast, 

The sooty smithy jars. 
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast. 

Are fading with the stars. 
All day for us the smith shall stand 

Beside that flashing forge ; 
All day for us his heavy hand 

The groaning anvil scourge. 



312 SONGS OF LABOR. 

From far-off hills, the panting team 

For us is toiling near ; 
For us the raftsmen down the stream 

Their island barges steer. 
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke 

In forests old and still, — 
For us the century-circled oak 

Falls crashing down his hill. 



Up — up! — in nobler toil than ours 

No craftsmen bear a part : 
We make of Nature's giant powers 

The slaves of human Art. 
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 

And drive the treenails free ; 
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 

Shall tempt the searching sea! 

Where'er the keel of our good ship 

The sea's rough field shall plough — 
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip 

With salt-spray caught below — 
That ship must heed her master's beck, 

Her helm obey his hand, 
And seamen tread her reeling deck 

As if they trod the land. 

Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 

Of Northern ice may peel ; 
The sunken rock and coral peak 

May grate along lier keel ; 



THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 313 

And know we well the painted shell 

We give to wind and wave, 
Must float, the sailor's citadel, 



Ho! — strike away the bars and blocks, 

And set the good ship free ! 
Why lingers on these dusty rocks 

The young bride of the sea? 
Look! how she moves adown the grooves, 

In graceful beauty now! 
How lowly on the breast she loves 

Sinks down her virgin prow! 

God bless her! wheresoever the breeze 

Her snowy wing shall fan, 
Aside the frozen Hebrides, 

Or sultry Hindostan! 
Where'er, in mart or on the main, 

With peaceful flag unfurled, 
She helps to wind the silken chain 

Of commerce round the world! 

Speed on the ship! — But let her bear 

No merchandise of sin. 
No groaning cargo of despair 

Her roomy hold within. 
No Lethean drug for Eastern lands. 

Nor poison-draught for ours ; 
But honest fruits of toiling hands 

And Nature's sun and showers. 



314 SONGS OF LABOR. 



Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, 

The Desert's golden sand, 
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 

The spice of Morning land! 
Her pathway on the open main 

May blessings follow free, 
And glad hearts welcome back again 

Her white sails from the sea! 



1846. 



THE SHOEMAKERS. 

Ho! workers of the old time styled 

The Gentle Craft of Leather! 
Young brothers of the ancient guild, 

Stand forth once more together! 
Call out again your long array, 

In the olden merry manner! 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

Fling out your blazoned banner! 

Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone 

How falls the polished hammer! 
Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown 

A quick and merry clamor. 
Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 

The glossy vamp around it. 
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 

Whose gentle fingers bound it! 



THE SHOEMAKERS. 315 

For you, along the Spanish main 

A hundred keels are ploughing ; 
For you, the Indian on the plain 

His lasso-coil is throwing ; 
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark 

The woodman's fire is lighting ; 
For you, upon the oak's gray bark 

The woodman's axe is smiting. 

For you, from Carolina's pine 

The rosin-gum is stealing ; 
For you. the dark-eyed Florentine 

Her silken skein is reeling ; 
For you, the dizzy goat-herd roams 

His rugged Alpine ledges ; 
For you, round all her shepherd homes, 

Bloom England's thorny hedges. 

The foremost still, by day or night, 

On moated mound or heather. 
Where'er the need of trampled right 

Brought toiling men together ; 
Where the free burghers from the wall 

Defied the mail-clad master, 
Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call, 

No craftsmen rallied faster. 

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride — 

Ye heed no idle scorner ; 
Free hands and hearts are still your pride, 

And duty done, your honor. 



3l6 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Ye dare to trust, for honest fame, 

The jury Time empanels, 
And leave to truth each noble name 

Which glorifies your annals. 

Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, 

In strong and hearty German ; 
And BloomfiekPs lay, and Gilford's wit. 

And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
Still from his book, a mystic seer, 

The soul of Behmen teaches. 
And England's priestcraft shakes to hear 

Of Fox's leathern breeches. 

The foot is yours ; where'er it falls. 

It treads your well-wrought leather, 
On earthern floor, in marble halls. 

On carpet, or on heather. 
Still there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vestal's. 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 

Among the old celestials ! 

Rap! rap! — your stout and bluff brogan, 

With footsteps slow and weary. 
May wander where the sky's blue span 

Shuts down upon the prairie. 
On Beauty's foot, your slippers glance. 

By Saratoga's fountains. 
Or twinkle down the summer dance 

Beneath the Crvstal Mountains! 



THE DROVERS. 317 

The red brick to the mason's hand, 

The brown earth to the tiller's, 
The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 

Like fairy Cinderella's! 
As they who shunned the household maid 

Beheld the crown upon her, 
So all shall see your toil repaid 

With hearth and home and honor. 

Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 

In water cool and brimming — 
" All honor to the good old Craft, 

Its merry men and women! " 
Call out again your long array, 

In the old time's pleasant manner ; 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

Fling out his blazoned banner! 

846. 



THE DROVERS. 

Through heat and cold, and shower and sun 

Still onward cheerly driving! 
There's life alone in duty done, 

And rest alone in striving. 
But see! the day is closing cool, 

The woods are dim before us ; 
The white fog of the way-side pool 

Is creeping slowly o'er us. 



3l8 SONGS OF LABOR. 

The night is falling, comrades mine, 

Our foot-sore beasts are weary, 
And through yon elms the tavern sign 

Looks out upon us cheery. 
The landlord beckons from his door, 

His beechen fire is glowing ; 
These ample barns, with feed in store, 

Are filled to overflowing. 

From many a valley frowned across 

By brows of rugged mountains ; 
From hill-sides where, through spongy moss, 

Gush out the river fountains ; 
From quiet farm-fields, green and low. 

And bright with blooming clover ; 
From vales of corn the wandering crow 

No richer hovers over ; 

Day after day our way has been, 

O'er many a hill and hollow ; 
By lake and stream, by wood and glen, 

Our stately drove we follow. 
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, 

As smoke of battle o'er us. 
Their white horns glisten in the sun. 

Like plumes and crests before us. 

We see them slowly climb the hill, 

As slow behind it sinking ; 
Or, thronging close, from road-side rill, 

Or sunny lakelet, drinking. 



THE DROVERS. 319 

Now crowding in the narrow road, 

In thick and strugghng masses, 
They glare upon the teamster's load, 

Or rattling coach that passes. 

Anon, with toss of horn and tail, 

And paw of hoof, and bellow, 
They leap some farmer's broken pale. 

O'er meadow-close or fallow. 
Forth comes the startled good-man ; forth 

Wife, children, house-dog, sally, 
Till once more on their dusty path 

The baffled truants rally. 

We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, 

Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony, 
Like those who grind their noses down 

On pastures bare and stony — 
Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs. 

And cows too lean for shadows. 
Disputing feebly with the frogs 

The crop of saw-grass meadows ! 

In our good drove, so sleek and fair. 

No bones of leanness rattle ; 
No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there, 

Or Pharaoh's evil cattle. 
Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand 

That fed him unrepining ; 
The fatness of a goodly land 

In each dun hide is shining. 



320 SONGS OF LABOR. 

We've sought them where, in warmest nooks, 

The freshest feed is growing, 
By sweetest springs and clearest brooks 

Through honeysuckle flowing ; 
Wherever hill-sides, sloping south, 

Are bright with early grasses, 
Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth^ 

The mountain streamlet passes. 



But now the day is closing cool, 

The woods are dim before us, 
The white fog of the w^ay-side pool 

Is creeping slowly o'er us. 
The cricket to the frog's bassoon 

His shrillest time is keeping ; 
The sickle of yon setting moon 

The meadow-mist is reaping. 

The night is falling, comrades mine. 

Our foot-sore beasts are weary, 
And through yon elms the tavern sign 

Looks out upon us cheery. 
To-morrow, eastward with our charge 

We'll go to meet the dawning, 
Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge 

Have seen the sun of morning. 

When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth, 

Instead of birds, are flitting ; 
When children throng the glowing hearth. 

And quiet wives are knitting ; 



THE FISHERMEN. $2 

While in the fire-light strong and clear 

Young eyes of pleasure glisten, 
To tales of all we see and hear 

The ears of home shall Hsten. 

By many a Northern lake and hill, 

From many a mountain pasture. 
Shall Fancy play the Drover still, 

And speed the long night faster. 
Then let us on, through shower and sun, 

And heat and cold, be driving ; 
There's life alone in duty done, 

And rest alone in striving. 



1847. 



THE FISHERMEN. 

Hurrah ! the seaward breezes 

Sweep down the bay amain ; 
Heave up, my lads, the anchor! 

Run up the sail again ! 
Leave to the lubber landsmen 

The rail-car and the steed ; 
The stars of heaven shall guide us. 

The breath of heaven shall speed. 

From the hill-top looks the steeple, 
And the light-house from the sand; 

And the scattered pines are waving 
Their farewell from the land. 



322 SONGS OF LABOR. 

One glance, my lads, behind us, 
For the homes we leave one sigh. 

Ere we take the change and chances 
Of the ocean and the sky. 

Now brothers, for the icebergs 

Of frozen Labrador, 
Floating spectral in the moonshine, 

Along the low, black shore! 
Where like snow the gannet's feathers 

Of Brador's rocks are shed. 
And the noisy murr are flying. 

Like black scuds, overhead ; 

Where in mist the rock is hiding, 

And the sharp reef lurks below, 
And the white squall smites in summer, 

And the autumn tempests blow ; 
Where, through gray and rolling vapor, 

From evening unto morn, 
A thousand boats are hailing, 

Horn answering unto horn. 

Hurrah! for the Red Island, 

With the white cross on its crown! 
Hurrah! for Meccatina, 

And its mountains bare and brown! 
Where the Caribou's tall antlers 

O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss. 
And the footstep of the Mickmack 

Has no sound upon the moss. 



THE FISHERsMEN. 323 

There we""!! drop our lines, and gather 

Old Ocean's treasures in, 
Where'er the mottled mackerel 

Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
The sea's our field of harvest, 

Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
We'll reap the teeming waters 

As at home they reap the plain! 

Our wet hands spread the carpet, 

And light the hearth of home ; 
From our fish, as in the old time, 

The silver coin shall come. 
As the demon fled the chamber 

Where the fish of Tobit lay, 
So ours from all our dwellings 

Shall frighten Want away. 

Though the mist upon our jackets 

In the bitter air congeals. 
And our lines wind stiif and slowly 

From oiT the frozen reels ; 
Though the fog be dark around us, 

And the storm blow high and loud, 
We will whistle down the wild wind, 

And laugh beneath the cloud! 

In the darkness as in daylight. 

On the water as on land, 
God's eye is looking on us, 

And beneath us is his hand! 



324 SONGS OF LABOR. 



On the deck or in the cot ; 
And we cannot meet him better 
Than in working out our lot. 

Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the west wind 

Comes freshening down the bay, 
The rising sails are filling — 

Give way, my lads, give way ! 
Leave the coward landsman clinging 

To the dull earth, like a weed — 
The stars of heaven shall guide us, 

The breath of heaven shall speed! 

:84S. 



THE HUSKERS. 

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal 
rain 

Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with 
grass again ; 

The first shai-p frosts had fallen, leaving all the 
woodlands gay 

With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow- 
flowers of May. 

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun 

rose broad and red, 
At first a rayless disc of fire, he brightened as he 

sped ; 



THE HUSKERS. 325 

Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and 
subdued, 

On the corn-fields and the orchards, and softly pict- 
ured wood. 

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the 

night, 
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow 

light ; 
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified 

the hill ; 
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, 

greener still. 

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught 

glimpses of that sky, 
Flecked by the many -tinted leaves, and laughed, 

they knew not why ; 
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the 

meadow brooks. 
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of 

sweet looks. 

From spire and barn, looked westerly the patient 

weather-cocks ; 
But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as 

rocks. 
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's 

dropping shell, 
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low 

rustling as they fell. 



326 SONGS OF LABOR. 

The summer grains were harvested; the stubble- 
fields lay dry, 

Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the 
pale-green waves of rye ; 

But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed 
with wood, 

Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn 
crop stood. 

Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through 

husks that, dry and sere. 
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the 

yellow ear ; 
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant 

fold, 
And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's 

sphere of gold. 

There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a 
creaking wain 

Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk 
and grain ; 

Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank 
down, at last, 

And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in bright- 
ness passed. 

Andlo! as through the western pines, on meadow, 

stream and pond. 
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire 

beyond, 



THE BUSKERS. 327 

Slowly o'er the Eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory 

shone. 
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into 



As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed 

away. 
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil 

shadows lay ; 
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet 

without name, 
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry 

buskers came. 

• 

Swung o'er the heaped-up-harvest, from pitchforks 

in the mow. 
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant 

scene below ; 
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears 

before, 
And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown 

cheeks glimmering o'er. 

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and 

heart, 
Talking their old times over, the old men sat 

apart ; 
While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling 

in its shade, 
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy 

children played. 



328 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young 

and fair, 
Lifting to light her sweet bhie eyes and pride of soft 

brown hair, 
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and 

smooth of tongue. 
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking- 

ballad sung, 

1847. 

The Corn Song. 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! 

Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 

From out her lavish horn ! 

Let other lands, exulting, glean 

The apple from the pine, 
The orange from its glossy green, 

The cluster from the vine ; 

We better love the hardy gift 

Our rugged vales bestow. 
To cheer us when the storm shall drift 

Our harvest fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, 

Our ploughs their furrows made, 
While on the hills the sun and showers 

Of changeful April played. 



THE HUSKERS. 329 

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, 

Beneath the sun of May, 
And frightened from our sprouting grain 

The robber crows away. 



All through the long, bright days of June, 
Its leaves grew green and fair. 

And waved in hot midsummer's noon 
Its soft and yellow hair. 



And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, 

Its harvest time has come. 
We pluck away the frosted leaves, 

And bear the treasure home. 



There, richer than the fabled gift 

Apollo showered of old, 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 

And knead its meal of gold. 

Let vapid idlers loll in silk. 
Around their costly board ; 

Give us the bowl of samp and milk. 
By homespun beauty poured ! 

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 

Sends up its smoky curls, 
Who will not thank the kindly earth, 

And bless our farmer girls! 



330 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
Whose folly laughs to scorn 

The blessing of our hardy grain, 
Our wealth of golden corn ! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root, 
Let mildew Wight the rye, 

Give to the worm the orchard's fruity 
The wheat-field to the fly : 

But let the good old crop adorn 
The hills our fathers trod ; 

Still let us, for his golden corn, 
Send up our thanks to God! 

1847. - 



THE LUMBERMEN. 
Wildly round our woodland quarters, 



Float his fallen leaves. 
Through the tall and naked timber, 

Column-like and old. 
Gleam the sunsets of November, 

From their skies of gold. 

O'er us, to the southland heading, 
Screams the gray wild-goose ; 

On the night-frost sounds the treading 
Of the brindled moose. 



THE LUMBERMEN, 33 1 

Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, 

Frost his task-work plies ; 
Soon, his icy bridges heaping, 

Shall our log-piles rise. 

When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 

On some night of rain, 
Lake and river break asunder 

Winter's weakened chain, 
Down the wild March flood shall bear them 

To the saw-milPs wheel, 
Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them 

With his teeth of steel. 

Be it starlight, be it moonhght. 

In these vales below. 
When the earliest beams of sunlight 

Streak the mountain's snow. 
Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early. 

To our hurrying feet, 
And the forest echoes clearly 

All our blows repeat. 

Where the crystal Ambijejis 

Stretches broad and clear, 
And Millnoket's pine-black ridges 

Hide the browsing deer : 
Where, through lakes and wide morasses. 

Or through rocky walls. 
Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 

White with foamv falls ; 



332 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Where, through clouds, are glimpses given 

Of Katahdin's sides, — 
Rock and forest piled to heaven, 

Torn and ploughed by slides! 
Far below, the Indian trapping, 

In the sunshine warm ; 
Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping 

Half the peak in storm ! 

Where are mossy carpets better 

Than the Persian weaves. 
And than Eastern perfumes sweeter 

Seem the fading leaves ; 
And a music wild and solemn, 

From the pine-tree^s height, 
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 

On the wind of night ; 

Make we here our camp of winter ; 

And, through sleet and snow, 
Pitchy knot and beechen splinter 

On our hearth shall glow. 
Here, with mirth to lighten duty. 

We shall lack alone 
Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty, 

Childhood's lisping tone. 

But their hearth is brighter burning 

For our toil to-day ; 
And the welcome of returning 

Shall our loss repay. 



THE LUMBERMEN. -^H 

When, like seamen from the waters, 

From the woods we come, 
Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, 

Ano^els of our home! 



Not for us the measured ringing 

From the village spire. 
Not for us the Sabbath singing 

Of the sweet-voiced choir : 
Ours the old, majestic temple, 

Where God's brightness shines 
Down the dome so grand and ample, 

Propped by lofty pines! 

Through each branch-enwoven skylight, 

Speaks He in the breeze, 
As of old beneath the twilight 

Of lost Eden's trees! 
For his ear, the inward feeling 

Needs no outward tongue ; 
He can see the spirit kneeling 

While the axe is swung. 

Heeding truth alone, and turning 

From the false and dim, 
Lamp of toil or altar burning 

Are alike to Him. 
Strike, then, comrades! — Tmde is waiting 

On our rugged toil ; 
Far ships waiting for the freighting 

Of our woodland spoil! 



334 SONGS OF LABOR. 

Ships, whose traffic links these highlands, 

Bleak and cold, of ours, 
With the citron-planted islands 

Of a clime of flowers ; 
To our frosts the tribute bringing 

Of eternal heats ; 
In our lap of winter flinging* 

Tropic fruits and sweets. 

Cheerly, on the axe of labor, 

Let the sunbeams dance, 
Better than the flash of sabre 

Or the gleam of lance ! 
Strike! — With every blow is given 

Freer sun and sky. 
And the long-hid earth to heaven 

Looks, with wondering eye! 

Loud behind us grow the murmurs 

Of the age to come ; 
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, 

Bearing harvest-home! 
Here her virgin lap with treasures 

Shall tlie green earth fill ; 
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 

Crown each beechen hill. 

Keep who will the city's alleys, 
Take the smooth-shorn plain, — 

Give to us the cedar valleys, 
Rocks and hills of Maine ! 



THE LUMBERMEN. 335 

In our North-land, wild and woody, 

Let us still have part ; 
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, 

Hold us to thy heart! 

O! our free hearts beat the warmer 

For thy breath of snow ; 
And our tread is all the firmer 

For thy rocks below. 
Freedom, hand in hand with labor, 

Walketh strong and brave ; 
On the forehead of his neighbor 

No man writeth Slave! 

Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's 

Pine-trees show its fires, 
While from these dim forest gardens 

Rise their blackened spires. 
Up, my comrades! up and doing! 

Manhood's rugged play 
Still renewing, bravely hewing 

Through the world our way ! 

1845. 







i • . ■ ■ 



'•y-K 



